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THE  ATLANTIC  BOOK 

OF 

MODERN  PLAYS 


THE  ATLANTIC  BOOK 
OF  MODERN  PLAYS 


EDITED  WITH  INTRODUCTION,  COMMENT 
AND  ANNOTATED  BIBLIOGRAPHY 


BY 


STERLING  ANDRUS  LEONARD 

Bepartment  of  Ertflish 

The  University  of  Wisconsin  and 

The  Wisconsin  High  School 


tlTfjE  Atlantic  iWontijIp  J^vtii 

BOSTON 


The  rights  of  production  of  these  plays  are  in  ettry  case  reserved  by  the 
authors  or  their  represeniatires.  A'o  play  can  be  given  publicly  xcithout  an 
individual  arrangement.  The  lair  does  not,  of  course,  prevent  their  read- 
ing in  classrooms  or  their  proiluction  before  an  awlience  of  a  school  or  in- 
rited  guests  vhere  no  fee  is  charged;  but  it  is,  naturally,  more  courteous  to 
ask  permission. 


Cofyrigit,  /gs/,  by 
THE  ATLANTIC   MONTHLY   PRESS 

Firpt  imprcMion,  Urccmhcr,  1911 
Second  Impreuion,  April,  1911 


'Printed  in  ihe  Vnittd  Statts  oftAmerica 


CONTENTS 


Foreword 

Acknowledgments 

Introduction:  On  the  Reading  of  Plays 


Vll 

ix 
xi 


The  Philosopher  of  Butterbiggens 


>►  Spreading  the  News       .   - 

The  Beggar  and  the  King 

X  Tides 

Mle 

Campbell  of  Kilmhor    . 
/  The  Sun     .... 

The  Knave  of  Hearts    . 
^  Fame  and  the  Poet       ':: 

The  Captain  of  the  Gate 
^Gettysburg 

Lonesome-Like 
(''Aiders  to  the  Sea  . 
■VThe  Land  of  Heart's  Desire 

The  Riding  to  Lithend 


Harold  Chapin 
Lady  Gregory 
Winthrop  Parkhurst 
George  Middleton  . 
Eugene  O'Neill 
J.  A.  Ferguson 
John  Galsworthy    . 
Louise  Saunders    . 
Lord  Dunsany 
Beulah  Marie  Dix 
Percy  Mackaye 
Harold  Brighottse  . 
John  Millington  Synge 
William  Butler  Yeats 
Gordon  Bottomley  . 


Questions  for  Discussion  in  Reading  the  Plays  . 

Notes  on  the  Dramas  and  the  Dramatists     . 

Annotated  Bibliography  of  Plays  and  Related  Books    298 


1 

14 

34 

45 

64 

84 

100 

107 

134 

144 

160 

177 

197 

211 

236 

281 
284 


1  Q   I  '7  '»  "■• 


A  FOREWORD 

/  We  are  at  present  in  the  midst  of  a  bewildering  quantity  of 
/  play-publication  and  production.  The  one-act  play  in  particular, 
chiefly  represented  in  this  volume,  appears  to  be  taking  the  place 
of  that  rather  squeezed  sponge,  the  short  story,  in  the  favor  of  the 
reading  public.  Of  course,  this  tendency  has  its  reaction  in  school- 
rooms. One  even  hears  of  high-school  classes  which  attempt  to 
keep  up  with  the  entire  output  of  such  dramas  in  English  readings. 
If  this  is  not  merely  an  apologue,  it  is  certainly  a  horrible  example. 
The  bulk  of  current  drama,  as  of  published  matter  generally,  is 
not  worthy  the  time  of  the  English  class.  Only  what  is  measur- 
ably of  rank,  in  truth  and  fineness,  with  the  literature  which  has 
endured  from  past  times  can  be  defended  for  use  there.  And  we 
have  too  much  that  is  both  well  fitted  to  young  people's  keen 
interest  and  enjoyment,  and  beautifully  worthy  as  well,  for  time 
to  be  wasted  upon  tlie  third-  and  fourth-rate. 

Obviously,  much  of  the  best  in  modern  play-writing  has  not 
been  included  in  this  volume.  Because  of  copyright  complica- 
tions the  works  of  Mr.  Masefield,  Mr.  Shaw,  Mr.  Drinkwater, 
and  Sir  James  Barrie  are  not  here  represented.  The  plays  by 
these  writers  that  seem  best  fitted  to  use  by  teachers  and  pupils  in 
high  schools,  together  with  a  large  number  of  other  dramas  for 
this  purpose,  are  listed  and  annotated  at  the  back  of  the  book. 
Suggestions  as  to  desirable  inclusions  and  omissions  will  be  wel- 
comed by  the  editor  and  the  publishers. 

Following  in  their  own  way  the  lead  of  the  Theatre  Libre  in 
Paris  and  the  Freie  Biihne  in  Germany,  and  of  the  Independent 
and  the  Repertory  theatres  in  Great  Britain,  numerous  "little 
theatres"  and  drama  associations  in  this  country  are  giving  im- 
pulsion and  direction  to  the  movement  for  finer  drama  and  more 
excellent  presentation.  The  Harvard  dramatic  societies,  the 
Morningside  Players  at  Columbia,  Mr.  Alex  Drummond's  Com- 
munity Theatre  at  the  State  Fair  in  Ithaca,  the  Little  Country 
Theatre  at  Fargo,  South  Dakota,  and  similar  groups  at  the  Uni- 


vili  FORE^YORD 

versity  of  California  and  elsewhere,  illustrate  the  leadership  of  the 
colleges.  In  many  high  schools,  as  at  South  Bend,  Indiana, 
more  or  less  complete  Little  Theatres  are  active.  The  Chicago 
Little  Theatre,  the  Wisconsin  Dramatic  Society,  the  Province- 
town  Players,  the  Neij;hl)orhood  Playhouse,  in  New  York,  and 
others  of  that  ilk,  are  well  known  and  influential.  Tliey  arc  ex- 
tending the  tradition  of  the  best  European  theatres  in  their 
attempts  to  cultivate  excellent  and  individual  expression  in 
drama.  They  realize  that  plays  must  be  tested  by  actual  per- 
formance, —  though  not  ntx'essarily  by  tlie  unnatural  demands 
of  success  in  competition  with  Broadway  revues  and  farce-melo- 
dramas,—  and  thus  developed  toward  a  genuine  artistic  em- 
bodiment of  the  vast  and  varied  life,  the  manifold  and  deep  ideal- 
ism of  this  country. 


ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

For  their  courteous  and  generous  cooperation  the  editor  is 
greatly  indebted  to  the  authors  and  pubHshers  of  all  the  plays 
included.  He  is  equally  grateful  to  other  dramatists  who  were 
personally  as  cordial  in  intention  but  quite  impotent  to  grant 
copyright  privileges.  In  addition,  he  has  received  most  friendly 
and  cordial  criticism  from  friends  and  friendly  strangers  to  whom 
he  appealed  —  among  others,  from  Mr.  Harold  Brighouse;  Mr. 
Theodore  Hinckley,  editor  of  "Drama";  Mr.  Clarence  Stratton, 
now  Director  of  English  at  Cleveland,  and  author  of  a  forth- 
coming book  on  the  Little  Theatre  in  this  country;  Mr.  Allan 
Monkhouse,  author  of  "Mary  Broome"  and  "War  Plays"; 
Professor  Allan  Abbot,  of  Teachers  College,  Columbia  Univer- 
sity; Mr.  Frank  G.  Thompkins,  of  Central  High  School,  Detroit; 
Mrs.  Mary  Austin;  Professor  Earl  R.  Pence,  of  De  Pauw  Uni- 
versity; Professor  Brander  Matthews;  and  Mrs.  AHce  Chapin. 
Ladebtedness  to  many  lists  is  obvious,  particularly  to  that  of  the 
Drama  League  and  the  Nation.il  Council  of  Teachers  of  Eng- 
lish, and  that  of  Professor  Pence  in  the  "Illinois  Bulletin." 

"lie"  is  reprinted  by  special  arrangement  with  the  author  and 
with  Boni  and  Liveright,  publishers,  New  York.  "He"  is  re- 
printed from  the  volume  "The  Moon  of  The  Caribbees"  and 
six  other  plays  of  the  sea,  which  volume  is  one  of  the  series  of 
plays  by  Mr.  O'Neill,  the  series  including  "  Beyond  the  Horizon," 
a  drama  in  four  acts,  "  The  Straw,"  a  play  in  three  acts  and  five 
scenes,  "Gold,"  a  play  in  four  acts  and  "Chris"  a  play  in  four 
acts. 


INTRODUCTION:  ON  THE  READING  OF  PLAYS 

The  elder  Dumas,  who  wrote  many  successful  plays,  as  well  as 
the  famous  romances,  said  that  all  he  needed  for  constructing  a 
drama  was  "four  boards,  two  actors,  and  a  passion."  What  he 
meant  by  passion  has  been  defined  by  a  later  French  writer,  Fer- 
dinand Brunetiere,  as  a  conflict  of  wills.  The  Philosopher  of  Butter- 
biggens,  whom  you  will  meet  early  in  this  book,  points  out  that 
"what  you  are  all  the  time  wanting"  is  "your  own  way."  When 
two  strong  desires  conflict  and  we  wonder  which  is  coming  out 
ahead,  we  say  that  the  situation  is  dramatic.  This  clash  is 
clearly  defined  in  any  effective  play,  from  the  crude  melodrama 
in  which  the  forces  are  hero  and  villain  with  pistols,  to  such  subtle 
conflicts,  based  on  a  man's  misunderstanding  of  even  his  own 
motives  and  purposes,  as  in  Mr.  Middleton's  "Tides." 

In  comedy,  and  even  in  farce,  struggle  is  clearly  present.  Here 
our  sympathy  is  with  people  who  engage  in  a  not  impossible  com- 
bat —  against  rather  obvious  villains  who  can  be  unmasked,  or 
against  such  public  opinion  or  popular  conventions  as  can  be 
overset.  The  hold  of  an  absurd  bit  of  gossip  upon  stupid  people  is 
firm  enough  in  "Spreading  the  News";  but  fortunately  it  must 
yield  to  facts  at  last.  The  Queen  and  the  Knave  of  Hearts  are 
sufficiently  clever,  with  the  aid  of  the  superb  cookery  of  the 
Knave's  wife,  to  do  away  with  an  ancient  and  solemnly  rever- 
enced law  of  Pompdebile's  court.  So,  too,  the  force  of  ancient 
loyalty  and  enthusiasm  almost  works  a  miracle  in  the  invalid 
veteran  of  "Gettysburg."  And  we  feel  sure  that  the  uncanny 
powers  of  the  Beggar  will  be  no  less  successful  in  overturning  the 
power  of  the  King  in  Mr.  Parkhurst's  play. 

Again,  in  comedies  as  in  mathematics,  the  problem  is  often 
solved  by  substitution.  The  soldier  in  Mr.  Galsworthy's  "The 
Sun  "  is  able  to  find  a  satisfactory  and  apparently  happy  ending 
without  achieving  what  he  originally  set  out  to  gain.  And  the 
same  is  true  of  Jock  in  Mr.  Brighouse's  "Lonesome-Like. "  Or  the 
play  which  does  not  end  as  the  chief  character  wishes  may  still 


y 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

prove  not  too  serious  because,  as  in  "Fame  and  tlie  Poet,"  the 
situation  is  merely  inconvenient  and  absurd  rather  than  tragic. 
Now  and  then  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  tell  whether  the  end- 
ing is  tragic  or  not;  in  the  "Land  of  Heart's  Desire"  we  must  first 
decide  whether  our  sympathies  are  more  witli  Shawn  Bruin  and 
with  Maire's  love  for  him,  or  with  her  keen  desire  to  go 

To  where  the  woods,  the  stars,  and  the  white  streams 
Are  holding  a  continual  festival. 

It  is  natural  for  us  to  desire  a  happy  ending  in  stories,  as  we 
desire  satisfying  solutions  of  tlie  problems  in  our  own  lives.  And 
whenever  the  forces  at  work  are  such  as  make  it  true  and  possible, 
naturally  this  is  the  best  ending  for  a  story  or  a  play.  But  where 
powerful  and  terrible  influences  have  to  be  combateil,  only 
a  poor  dramatist  will  make  use  of  mere  chance,  or  ctimpel 
his  characters  to  do  what  such  people  really  would  not  do,  to 
bring  about  a  factitious  "ha{)py  ending."  With  the  relentless, 
mighty  arms  of  England  engaged  in  hunting  the  defeat«il  High- 
lanflers  after  the  Battle  of  CuUoden,  a  play  like  "CamplH-U  of 
Kilmhor,"  in  which  we  sympathize  with  the  ill-fated  Stewarts, 
cannot  end  hajipily.  If  tluy  had  yielded  under  pressure  and  be- 
trayed their  coinrddes,  we  might  have  pitied  them,  but  we  could 
uot  admire  their  action,  and  there  would  have  been  no  strong 
conclusion.  In  "Riders  t«)  the  Sea,"  where  tlie  characters  are 
compelled  by  bitter  poverty  to  face  tlie  relentless  forces  of  storm 
and  sea,  and  in  "The  Hi«hiig  to  Lithend,"  we  exptxt  a  tragic 
end  almost  from  tlu-  first  lines  of  the  play.  We  recognize  this  same 
dramatic  tensity  of  hopth-ss  confliet  in  many  stories  as  wiU  as 
plays;  it  is  most  powerful  in  three  or  four  novels  by  Cieorge  Eliot, 
(irorge  Mi-redith,  and  Thonuis  Hardy. 

One  of  the  best  ways  to  understand  these  as  real  stage  plays 
«B  through  some  sort  of  tlramatizjition.  This  dix-s  not  mean, 
however,  that  they  nei-d  be  pnvlueeil  with  elalH)rate  scent-ry 
and  costunu"S,  memorizing,  and  rehearsal;  often  the  best  under- 
standing may  b<*  secured  by  quite  informal  rea<ling  in  the  class, 
with  p«Thai)S  a  hat  and  cloak  and  a  lath  sword  or  two  for  prop- 
erties. With  simply  a  clear  space  in  the  cla.s.sriM)m  for  a  stage,  you 
and  your  imaginations  can  give  all  the  performance  necessary  for 
realizing  the.se  plays  very  wdl  inde<Hl.  But,  of  course,  you  must 
<I<-arly  understand  tlie  lines  and  the  play  as  a  whole  Ixfore  you 
try  to  take  a  part,  so  that  you  can  read  simply  and  naturally,  as 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

you  think  the  people  in  the  story  probably  spoke.  Some  ques- 
tions for  discussion  in  the  appendix  may  help  you  in  talking  the 
plaj's  over  in  class  or  in  readmg  them  for  yourself  before  you  try 
to  take  a  part.  You  will  find  it  sometimes  helps,  also,  to  make  a 
diagram  or  a  colored  sketch  of  the  scene  as  the  author  describes  it, 
or  even  a  small  model  of  the  stage  for  a  "dramatic  museum"  for 
your  school.  If  you  have  not  tried  this,  you  do  not  know  how 
much  it  helps  in  seeing  plays  of  other  times,  like  Shakespeare's  or 
Moliere's;  and  it  is  useful  also  for  modern  dramas.  Such  small 
stages  can  be  used  for  puppet  theatres  as  well.  "The  Knave  of 
Hearts "  is  intended  as  a  marionette  play,  and  other  dramas  — 
Maeterlinck's  and  even  Shakespeare's  —  have  been  given  in  this 
way  with  very  interesting  efiFects. 

If  you  bring  these  plays  to  a  performance  for  others  outside 
your  own  class,  you  will  find  that  the  simplest  and  least  preten- 
tious settings  are  generally  most  effective.  The  Irish  players,  as 
Mr.  Yeats  tells  us,  "have  made  scenery,  indeed,  but  scenery  that 
is  little  more  than  a  suggestion  —  a  pattern  with  recurring  boughs 
and  leaves  of  gold  for  a  wood,  a  great  green  curtain,  with  a  red 
stencil  upon  it  to  carry  the  eye  upward,  for  a  palace."  Mr,  John 
Merrill  of  the  Francis  Parker  School  describes  the  quite  excellent 
results  secured  with  a  dark  curtain  in  a  semicircle  —  a  cyclorama 
—  for  background,  and  with  colored  lights.^  Such  a  staging  leaves 
the  attention  free  to  follow  the  lines,  and  the  imagination  to  pic- 
ture whatever  the  play  suggests  as  the  place  of  the  action. 

1  John  Merrill:  "Drama  and  the  School,"  in  Drama,  November,  1919. 


L- 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF 
BUTTERBIGGENS^ 

HAROLD  CHAPm 

CHARACTERS 

David  Pirnie 
Lizzie,  his  daughter 
John  Bell,  his  son-in-law 
Alexander,  John's  little  son 

SCENE:  John  Bell's  tenement  at  Buttcrbiggens.  It  cou' 
sists  of  the  very  usual  "tivo  rooms,  kitchen,  and  bath," 
a  concealed  bed  in  the  parlor  and  another  in  the  kitchen 
enabling  him  to  house  his  family  —  consisting  of  himself, 
his  wife,  his  little  son,  and  his  aged  father-in-law  — 
therein.  The  kitchen-and-living-room  is  a  good-sized 
square  room.  The  right  wall  (our  right  as  we  look  at  it) 
is  occupied  by  a  huge  built-in  dresser,  sink,  and  coal 
bunker,  the  left  wall  by  a  high-manteled,  ovened,  and 
boilered  fireplace,  the  recess  on  either  side  of  which  con- 
tains a  low  painted  cupboard.  Over  the  far  cupboard 
hangs  a  picture  of  a  ship,  but  over  the  near  one  is  a  small 
square  vnndow.  The  far  wall  has  two  large  doors  in  it, 
that  on  the  right  leading  to  the  lobby,  and  that  on  the  left 
appertaining  to  the  old  father-in-law' s  concealed  bed. 

^  Included  by  special  permission  of  Mrs.  Alice  Chapin.  Permission  to 
present  this  play  must  be  secured  from  Samuel  French,  28  West  38th 
Street,  New  York  City,  who  controls  all  acting  rights,  etc.,  in  this  country. 

2 


2     THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS 

The  walls  are  distempered  a  brickish  red.  The  ceiling 
once  was  white.  The  floor  is  covered  with  bright  linoleum 
and  a  couple  of  rag  rugs  —  one  before  the  fire  —  a  large 
one  —  and  a  smaller  one  before  the  door  of  the  concealed 
bed. 

A  deal  table  is  just  to  right  of  centre.  A  long  flexible 
gas-bracket  depends  from  the  ceiling  above  it.  Anotlier 
many-jointed  gas-bracket  projects  from  the  middle  of  the 
high  mantelpiece,  its  flame  turned  down  towards  the  store. 
There  are  wooden  chairs  at  the  table,  above,  below,  and  to 
left  of  it.  A  high-backed  easy  chair  is  above  the  fire,  a 
kitchen  elbow-chair  beloic  it. 

The  kitchen  is  very  tidy.  A  newspaper  newly  falleri  to 
the  rug  before  the  fire  and  another  —  an  evening  one  — 
spread  flat  on  the  table  are  (besides  a  child's  mug  and 
plate,  also  on  the  table)  the  only  things  not  stowed  in  their 
prescribed  places.  It  is  evening  —  the  light  beyond  the 
little  square  window  being  the  gray  dimness  of  a  long 
Northern  twilight  which  slowly  deepens  during  the  play. 
When  the  curtain  rises  it  is  still  light  enough  in  the  room 
for  a  man  to  read  if  the  print  be  not  too  faint  and  his 
eyes  be  good.  The  warm  light  of  the  fire  leaps  and  flickers 
through  the  gray,  shou-ing  up  icilh  exceptional  clearness 
the  deep-lined  face  of  old  David  Pirnie,  who  w  discov- 
ered half-ri.sen  from  his  armchair  above  the  fire,  standing 
on  the  hearth-rug,  his  body  bent  and  his  hand  on  the  chair 
arm.  He  is  a  little,  feeble  old  man  with  a  udl-shaped 
head  and  urather-bealen  face,  set  off  by  a  grizzled  beard 
and  tvhisker.'<,  wiry  and  vigorous,  in  curious  contrast  to 
the  wreath  of  snojcy  hair  that  encircles  his  head.  His 
upper  lip  is  shaven.  He  wears  an  old  suit  —  the  unbut- 
toned waistcoat  of  which  shows  an  old  flannel  shirt.  His 
slippers  are  low  at  the  heel  and  his  socks  loose  at  the 
ankles. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS     3 

The  old  man's  eyes  are  fixed  appealingly  on  those  of 
his  daughter,  who  stands  in  the  half-open  door,  her  grasp 
on  the  handle,  meeting  his  look  squarely  —  a  straight- 
browed,  black-haired,  determined  young  woman  of  six  or 
seven  and  twenty.  Her  husband,  John,  seated  at  the  table 
in  his  shirt-sleeves  with  his  head  in  his  hands,  reads  hard 
at  the  paper  and  tries  to  look  unconcerned. 

David.  Aw  —  but,  Lizzie  — 

Lizzie  (with  splendid  firmness) .  It's  nae  use,  feyther. 
I  'm  no'  gaein'  to  gie  in  to  the  wean.  Ye  've  been  tellin'  yer 
stories  to  him  nicht  after  nicht  for  dear  knows  how  long, 
and  he  's  gettin'  to  expect  them. 

David.  Why  should  he  no'  expect  them? 

Lizzie.  It  disna  do  for  weans  to  count  on  things  so.  He's 
layin'  up  a  sad  disappointment  for  himself  yin  o'  these  days. 

David.  He 's  gettin'  a  sad  disappointment  the  noo. 
Och,  come  on, Lizzie.  I  'm  no'  gaein'  to  dee  just  yet,  an'  ye 
can  break  him  off  gradually  when  I  begin  to  look  like  to, 

Lizzie.  Who 's  talkin'  o'  yer  deein',  feyther? 

David.  Ye  were  speakin'  o'  the  disappointment  he  was 
layin'  up  for  himself  if  he  got  to  count  on  me  — 

Lizzie.  I  wasna  thinkin'  o'  yer  deein',  feyther  —  only  — 
it 's  no  guid  for  a  bairn  — 

David.  Where  's  the  harm  in  my  giein'  him  a  bit  story 
before  he  gangs  tae  his  bed? 

Lizzie.  I  'm  no  sayin'  there  's  ony  harm  in  it  this  yinst, 
feyther;  but  it 's  no  richt  to  gae  on  nicht  after  nicht  wi' 
never  a  break  — 

David.  Whit  wey  is  it  no  richt  if  there 's  nae  harm  in  it? 

Lizzie.  It 's  giein'  in  to  the  wean. 

David.  Whit  wey  should  ye  no'  gie  in  to  him  if  there  's 
nae  harm  in  it? 

Lizzie  (keeping  her  patience  with  difficulty).  Because  it 
gets  him  into  the  habit. 


4     THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  RUTTERBIGGEXS 

David.  Rut  why  should  he  no'  get  into  the  habit  if 
there  's  nae  harm  in  it? 

(John  at  the  table  chuckles.  Lizzie  gives  him  a  look,  but 
he  meets  it  not.) 

Lizzie.  Really,  fey ther,  ye  micht  be  a  wean  yersclf ,  ye  're 
that  persistent. 

D.\\^D.  No,  Lizzie,  I'm  no'  persistent,  I'm  reasoning 
wi'  ye.  Ye  said  there  was  nae  harm  in  my  tcllin'  him  a  bit 
story,  an'  now  ye  say  I'm  not  to  because  it'll  get  him  into 
the  haljit ;  an'  what  I  *m  askin'  ye  is,  where 's  the  harm  o'  his 
gettin'  into  the  habit  if  there's  nae  harm  in  it? 

Lizzie.  Oh,  aye;  ye  can  be  gey  clever,  tvsnstin'  the  words 
in  my  mouth,  fcyther ;  but  richt  is  richt,  an'  wTang's  wrang, 
for  all  yer  cleverness. 

David  (earnestly).  I'mnobein'clevcr  a va,  Lizzie,  —  no' 
the  noo,  —  I'm  just  tryin'  to  make  ye  sec  that,  if  ye  admit 
there's  nae  harm  in  a  thing,  ye  canna  s;iy  there's  ony  harm 
in  it,  au'  (pathetically)  I'm  wantin*  to  tell  wee  Alexander  a 
bit  story  before  he  gangs  to  his  bed. 

John  (aside  to  her).  Och,  wumman  — 

Lizzie.  T'ts,  John;  ye 'd  gie  in  tae  onybody  if  they  were 
ju-st  persistent  enough. 

John.  Ile'sanauld  man. 

Lizzie  (really  exasperated).  I  ken  fine  he's  an  auld  man, 
John,  and  ye 're  a  young  yin,  an'  Alexander's  gaein'  to  be 
anither,  an'  I'm  a  lone  wumman  among  the  lot  o'  ye,  but 
I  *m  no*  gaein'  to  gie  in  to  — 

John  (bringing  a  fresh  mind  to  bear  upon  the  argument). 
Efter  a',  Lizzie,  there's  nae  harm  — 

Lizzie  (almost  unth  a  scream  of  anger).  Och,  now  you  've 
stairtod,  have  you?  llnrm.  Harm.  Harm.  You're  talkin* 
about  harm,  and  1  "m  talking  al)out  riiht  an'  wrang.  You  'd 
sec  your  son  grow  up  a  drunken  kcelie,  an*  mebbe  a  thief  an' 
a  murderer,  so  long  as  you  could  say  there  was  nae  harm 
in  it. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS     5 

David  (expostulating  with  some  cause).  But  I  cudna  say- 
there  was  nae  harm  in  that,  Lizzie,  an'  I  wudna.  Only 
when  there 's  nae  harm  — 

Lizzie,  Och.  (Exits,  calling  off  to  the  cause  of  the  trouble.) 
Are  ye  in  yer  bed  yet,  Alexander? 

(Shuts  door  unth  a  click.) 

David  (standing  on  hearth-rug  and  shaking  his  head  more 
in  sorrow  than  in  anger).  She's  no  reasonable,  ye  ken, 
John;  she  disna  argue  fair.  I'm  no  complaining  o'  her 
mither,  but  it 's  a  wee  thing  hard  that  the  only  twa  women 
I've  known  to  be  really  chatty  an'  argumentative  with 
should  ha'  been  just  like  that.  An'  me  that  fond  o'  women's 
society. 

(He  lowers  himself  into  his  chair.) 

John.  They're  all  like  it. 

David  (judiciously).  I  wudna  go  sae  far  as  to  say  that, 
John.  Ye  see,  I ' ve  only  kent  they  twa  to  study  carefully  — 
an'  it 's  no  fair  to  judge  the  whole  sex  by  just  the  twa  exam- 
ples, an'  it  were  —  (Running  on)  But  it 's  gey  hard,  an'  I 
was  wantin'  to  tell  wee  Alexander  a  special  fine  story  the 
nicht.   (Removes  glasses  and  blinks  his  eyes.)  Aweel. 

John  (comforting) .   Mebbe  the  morn  — 

David.  If  it's  no  richt  the  nicht,  it'll  no  be  richt  the 
morn's  nicht. 

John.  Ye  canna  say  that,  feyther.  It  wasna  wrang  last 
nicht. 

David  (bitterly).  Mebbe  it  was,  an'  Lizzie  had  no'  foun' 
it  out. 

John.  Aw,  noo,  feyther,  dinna  get  saurcastic. 

David  (between  anger  and  tears,  weakly).  I  canna  help  it. 
I'm  black  affrontit.  I  was  wantin'  to  tell  wee  Alexander  a 
special  fine  story  the  nicht,  an'  now  here 's  Lizzie  wi'  her 
richt 's  richt  an'  wrang 's  wrang  —  Och,  there 's  nae  reason 
in  the  women. 


C     THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS 

John.  We  has  to  gic  in  to  them  though. 

David.  Aye.  That's  why. 

( There  is  a  pa  use.  The  old  man  picks  up  h  is  paper  again 
and  settles  his  glasses  on  his  nose.  John  rises,  and 
tcith  a  spill  from  the  mantelpiece  lights  the  gas  there, 
which  he  then  bejids  to  throw  the  light  to  the  old  man*s 
advantage.) 

David.  Thank  ye,  John.  Do  ye  hear  him? 

John  {erect  on  hearth-rug).  Who? 

David.  Wee  Alexander. 

John,  No. 

David.  Greetin'  his  heart  out. 

John.  Och,  he's  no  greetin'.   Lizzie's  wi'  him. 

David.  I  ken  fine  Lizzie's  wi*  him,  but  he's  greetin'  for 
a'  her.  He  was  wantin'  to  hear  yon  story  o'  the  kelpies  up  to 
Cross  Hill  wi*  the  tram  —  (Breaking  his  mood  impatiently) 
Och. 

John  {crossing  to  table  and  lighting  up  there).  It 's  gettin' 
dark  gey  early.  We'll  shin  he  haein*  tea  by  the  gas. 

David  {rustling  his  paper).  Aye — {Siuldenly)  There 
never  was  a  female  philosopher,  ye  ken,  John. 

John.  Was  there  no'? 

David.  No.  {Angrily,  in  a  gust)  An'  there  never  will  be! 
(Then  more  calmly)  An'  yet  there's  an'  awful  lot  o*  phi- 
losophy about  women,  John. 

John.  Aye? 

David.  Och,  aye.  They  *re  that  unreasonable,  an '  yet  ye 
canna  reason  them  down;  an'  they 're  that  weak,  an' yet  ye 
eanna  make  them  gie  in  tae  ye.  Of  course,  ye '11  say  ye  canna 
reason  doon  a  stane,  or  make  a  clod  o'  earth  gie  in  tae  ye. 

John.  Willi? 

David.  Aye.  An'  ye "11  be  richt.  But  then  I  '11  tell  ye  a 
stunc  will  na  answer  ye  back,  an'  a  clod  of  earth  will  na  try 
to  withstand  ye,  so  how  can  ye  argue  them  down? 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS      7 

John  (convinced) .  Ye  canna. 

David.  Richt!  Ye  canna!  But  a  wumman  will  answer 
ye  back,  an'  shewill  stand  against  ye,  an'  yet  ye  canna  argue 
her  down  though  ye  have  strength  an'  reason  on  your  side 
an'  she 's  talkin'  naething  but  blether  about  richt 's  richt  an' 
wrang's  wrang,  an'  sendin'  a  poor  bairn  off  t'  his  bed  i'  the 
yin  room  an'  leavin'  her  auld  feyther  all  alone  by  the  fire 
in  anither  an'  —  ye  ken  —  Philosophy  — 

(He  ceases  to  speak  and  wipes  his  glasses  again.  John, 
intensely  troubled,  tiptoes  up  to  the  door  and  opens  it  a 
foot.   The  wails  of  Alexander  can  be  heard  muffled 
by  a  farther  door.  John  calls  off.) 
John.  Lizzie. 

(Lizzie  immediately  comes  into  sight  outside  the  door 
witha"Shsh.") 
John.  Yer  feyther 's  greetin'. 

Lizzie  (loith  a  touch  of  exasperation) .  Och,  I  'm  no  heedin' ! 
There's  another  wean  in  there  greetin'  too,  an'  I'm  no 
heedin'  him  neither,  an'  he's  greetin'  twicet  as  loud  as  the 
auld  yin. 

John  (shocked).  Ye 're  heartless,  wumman. 
Lizzie  (vxith  patience).  No,  I'm  no'  heartless,  John;  but 
there's  too  much  heart  in  this  family,  an'  someone's  got  to 
use  their  heid. 

(David  cranes  round  the  side  of  his  chair  to  catch  what 
they  are  saying.  She  stops  and  comes  to  him  kindly  but 
with  womanly  firmness.) 
Lizzie.  I'm  vexed  ye  should  be  disappointed,  feyther, 
but  ye  see,  don't  ye  — 

(A  singidarly  piercing  wail  from  Alexander  goes  up. 
Lizzie  rushes  to  silence  him.) 
Lizzie.  Mercy!  The  neighbors  will  think  we're  mur- 
derin'  him. 

( The  door  closes  behind  her.) 


8      THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS 

David  (nodding  for  a  space  as  he  revolves  the  icomans 
altitude).  Ye  hear  that,  John? 

Joiix.  Whit? 

David  (ivith  quiet  irony) .  She's  vexed  I  should  be  disap>- 
pointed.  The  wiiminan  thinks  she's  richtl  Women  always 
think  they're  richt  —  mcl)l)e  it's  that  that  makes  them 
that  obstinate.  {With  the  ghost  of  a  twinkle)  She's  feart  o' 
the  neighbors,  thou^'h. 

John  {stolidly).  A'  women  arc  feart  o'  the  neighbors. 

David  {reverting).  Puir  wee  man.  I  telt  ye  he  was 
greetin',  John.  He's  disappointed  fine.  {Pondering) 
D'  ye  ken  whit  I'm  thinkin',  John? 

John.  Whit? 

David.  I'm  thinkin'  he's  too  young  to  get  his  ain  way, 
an'  I'm  too  auld,  an'  it's  a  fine  thocht! 

John.  Aye? 

David.  Aye.  I  never  thocht  of  it  before,  but  that 's  what 
it  is.  He's  no'  come  to  it  yet,  an'  I'm  past  it.  {Suddenly) 
What's  the  most  important  thing  in  life,  John? 

(John  opens  his  mouth  —  and  shuts  if  again  unused.) 

David.  Ye  ken  perfectly  well.  What  is  it  ye 're  wantin' 
a'  the  time? 

John.  DifTerent  things. 

David  {satisfied).  Aye  —  different  things!  But  ye  want 
them  a',  do  ye  no'? 

John.  Aye. 

David.  If  ye  had  yer  ain  way  yc'd  hae  them  a',  eh? 

John.  I  wud  that. 

David  {triumphant).  Then  is  that  no'  wiiat  ye  want :  yer 
ain  way? 

John  {enlightened).  LoshI 

David  {warming  tn  iJ).  Thai 's  what  life  is,  John  — 
gettin'  yer  ain  way.  First  ye'  re  born,  an'  ye  camia  dae  any- 
thing but  cry;  but  God's  given  yer  mither  cars  an'  ye  get 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS      9 

ycr  way  by  just  cryiii'  for  it.  (Hastily,  anticipating  criti- 
cism) I  ken  that 's  no  exactly  in  keeping  with  what  I  've 
been  saying  aboot  Alexander — but  a  new-born  bairnie's  an 
aw^u'  delicate  thing,  an'  the  Lord  gets  it  past  its  infancy  by 
a  dispensation  of  Providence  very  unsettling  to  oor  poor 
human  understandings.  Ye  '11  notice  the  weans  cease  gettin' 
their  wey  by  j  uist  greetin'  for  it  as  shin  as  they  're  old  enough 
to  seek  it  otherwise. 

John.  The  habit  hangs  on  to  them  whiles. 

David.  It  does  that.  (With  a  tiduMc)  An'  mebbc,  if 
God's  gi'en  yer  neighbors  ears  an'  ye  live  close,  ye '11  get 
yer  wey  by  a  dispensation  o'  Providence  a  while  longer. 
But  there 's  things  ye  '11  hae  to  do  for  yerself  gin  ye  want  to 
—  an'  ye  will.  Ye  '11  want  to  hold  oot  yer  hand,  an'  ye  will 
hold  oot  yer  hand;  an'  ye  '11  want  to  stand  up  and  walk,  and 
ye  will  stand  up  and  walk;  an'  ye '11  want  to  dae  as  ye 
please,  and  ye  will  dae  as  ye  please;  and  then  ye  are  prac- 
tised an'  lernt  in  the  art  of  gettin'  yer  ain  way  —  and  ye  're 
a  man! 

John.  Man,  feyther  —  ye  're  wonderful ! 

David  (complacently).  I'm  a  philosopher,  John.  But  it 
goes  on  mebbe. 

John.  Aye? 

David.  Aye :  mebbe  ye  think  ye'd  like  to  make  ither  folk 
mind  ye  an'  yer  way,  an'  ye  try,  an'  if  it  comes  off  ye  're  a 
big  man  an'  mebbe  the  master  o'  a  vessel  wi'  three  men  an' 
a  boy  under  ye,  as  I  was,  John.  (Dropping  into  the  minor) 
An'  then  ye  come  doon  the  hill. 

John  (apprehensively).  Doon  the  hill? 

David.  Aye  —  doon  to  mebbe  wantin'  to  tell  a  wean  a 
bit  story  before  he  gangs  tae  his  bed,  an'  ye  canna  dae  even 
that.  An'  then  a  while  more  an'  ye  want  to  get  to  yer  feet 
an'  walk,  and  ye  canna;  an'  a  while  more  an'  ye  want  to  lift 
up  ycr  hand,  an'  ye  canna  —  an'  in  a  while  more  ye  're  just 
forgotten  an'  done  wi'. 


10    TIIE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS 

John.  Aw,  feji:her! 

David.  Dinna  look  sae  troubled,  John.  I'm  no' afraid  to 
dec  when  my  time  comes.  It 's  these  hints  that  I  'm  done  vn 
before  I'm  dead  that  I  dinna  like. 

John.  ^Yhat'n  hints? 

David.  Well  —  Lizzie  an*  her  richt's  richt  and  wTang's 
wrang  when  I  think  o'  tellin'  wee  Alexander  a  bit  story 
before  he  gangs  tae  his  bed. 

John  {gently).  Ye  are  a  wee  thing  persistent,  fejlher. 

David.  No,  I'm  no' persistent,  John.  I'vegicdin.  I'm 
a  philosopher,  John,  an'  a  philosopher  kens  when  he's 
done  wi'. 

John.  Aw,  feyther! 

David  {getting  loner  and  lower).  It's  gey  interesting, 
philosophy,  Jolm,  an'  the  only  philosoi)hy  worth  thinkin' 
about  is  the  philosophy  of  growing  old — because  that's 
what  we're  a'  doing,  a'  living  things.  There's  nae  philos- 
ophy in  a  stane,  John;  he's  juist  a  stane,  an'  in  a  hmulrcd 
years  he  '11  l)c  juist  a  stane  still  —  unless  he 's  broken  up,  an' 
then  he'll  be  juist  not  a  stane,  but  he'll  no'  ken  what's 
happened  to  him,  because  he  didna  break  up  gradual  and 
first  lose  his  boat  an'  then  his  hoose,  an'  then  hae  his  wee 
grandson  taken  awaj'  when  he  was  for  tellin'  him  a  bit  story 
before  he  gangs  tae  his  bed.  —  It's  yon  losing  ycr  grip  bit 
by  bit  and  kennin'  that  yer  losin'  it  that  makes  a  philoso- 
pher, John. 

John.  If  I  kennt  what  ye  meant  by  philosophy,  feyther, 
I  'd  be  better  able  to  follow  ye. 

(Lizzie  enters  quietly  aud  clones  door  after  her.) 

John.  Is  he  asleep? 

Lizzie.  No,  he's  no'  asleep,  but  I've  shut  both  doors, 
and  the  neighbors  eanna  hear  him. 

JoH.N.  Aw,  Lizzie  — 

Lizzie  {sharply).  John  — 

Daviii.  ^^^lit  was  I  tellin'  ye,  John,  about  weans  gettin' 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS    11 

their  ain  way  if  the  neighbors  had  ears  an'  they  lived  close? 
Was  I  no'  richt? 

Lizzie  {answering  for  John  with  some  acerbity).  Aye,  ye 
were  richt,  feyther,  nae  doot ;  but  we  dinna  live  that  close 
here,  an'  the  neighbors  canna  hear  him  at  the  back  o'  the 
hoose. 

David.  Mebbe  that's  why  ye  changed  Alexander  into 
the  parlor  an'  gied  me  the  bed  in  here  when  it  began  to  get 
cold  — 

Lizzie  (hurt).  Aw,  no,  feyther;  I  brought  ye  in  here  to  be 
warmer  — 

David  (placably).  I  believe  ye,  wumman — (with  a 
faint  twinkle)  —  but  it's  turned  oot  luckily,  has  it  no'? 

(David  waits  for  a  reply  but  gets  none.  Lizzie  fetches 
needlework  from  the  dresser  drawer  and  sits  above 
table.  David's /ac^  and  voice  take  on  a  more  thought- 
ful tone.) 
David  (musing).  Puir  wee  man !  If  he  was  in  here  you 'd 
no'  be  letting  him  greet  his  heart  oot  where  onybody  could 
hear  him.  Wud  ye? 
Lizzie  (calmly).  Mebbe  I'd  no'. 
John.  Ye  ken  fine  ye'd  no',  wumman. 
Lizzie.  John,  thread  my  needle  an'  dinna  take  feyther's 
part  against  me. 

John  (surprised).  I'm  no'. 

Lizzie.  No,  I  ken  ye  're  no  meanin'  to,  but  you  men  are 
that  thrang  — 

(She  is  interrupted  by  a  loud  squall  from  David,  which 

he  maintains,  eyes  shut,  chair-arms  gripped,  and 

mouth  open,  for  nearly  half  a  minute,  before  he  cuts  it 

off  abruptly  and  looks  at  the  startled  couple  at  the  table.) 

Lizzie.  Mercy,  feyther,  whit's  wrang  wi'  ye? 

David   (collectedly).    There's  naethin'  wrang  wi'  me, 

Lizzie,  except  that  I  'm  wantin'  to  tell  wee  Alexander  a  bit 

story  — 


12    THE  PIIILOSOPIIER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS 

Lizzie  {firmly  but  very  kindly).  But  ye 're  no'  goin'  to  — 
(She  breaks  off  in  alarm  as  her  father  opens  his  mouth 
preparatory  to  another  yell,  xvhich  however  he  post- 
pones to  speak  to  John.) 

David.  Ye  mind  whit  I  was  saying  aboot  the  dispensa- 
tion o'  Providence  to  help  weans  till  they  could  try  for 
theirselves,  John? 

John.  Aye. 

David.  Did  it  no' occur  to  ye  then  that  there  ought  to  be 
some  sort  of  dispensation  to  look  after  the  auld  yins  who 
were  past  it? 

John.  No. 

David.  Aweel — it  didna  occur  to  nie  at  the  time  — 
{and  he  lets  off  another  prolonged  wail). 

Lizzie  {going  to  him).  Shsh!  Feyther!  The  neighbors 
will  hear  ye!!! 

David  {desisting  as  before).  I  ken  fine;  I'm  no'  at  the 
back  of  the  hoose.  {Shorter  wail.) 

Lizzie  {abnost  in  tears).  They'll  be  coming  to  ask. 

David.  Let  them.  They'll  no' ask  w<'.   {Squall.) 

Lizzie.  Feyther  —  ye 're  no'  behaving  well.  John  — 

John.  Aye? 

J  A7//AE  {helplessly).  Naething  —  feyther,  stop  it.  They'll 
think  ye 're  clean  daft. 

David  (ceasing  to  howl  and  speaking  xrith  gravity).  I  ken 
it  fine,  Lizzie;  an'  it's  no  easy  for  a  man  who  has  been  re- 
speckit  an'  lookit  up  to  a'  his  life  to  be  thought  daft  at 
eighty-three;  but  the  most  important  thing  in  life  is  to  get 
yer  ain  way.   (Resumes  wailing.) 

Lizzie  (puzzled,  to  John).  Whit 's  that? 

John.  It's  his  philosophy  that  lie  was  talking  aboot. 

David  (firmly).  An'  I  'm  gaein'  to  tell  wee  Alexander  yon 
bit  story,  tho'  they  think  me  daft  for  it. 

Lizzie.  But  it 's  no'  for  his  ain  guid,  feyther.  I  '\  e  telt  ye 
so,  but  ye  wudna  listen. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER  OF  BUTTERBIGGENS    13 

David.  I  wudna  listen,  WTimman!  It  was  you  wudna 
listen  to  me  when  I  axed  ye  whit  harm  —  (Chuckles.  — 
Checking  himself)  No!  I'm  no  gaein'  to  hae  that  ower 
again.  I've  gied  up  arguing  wi'  women.  I'm  juist  gaein' 
tae  greet  loud  an'  sair  till  wee  Alexander 's  brought  in  here 
to  hae  his  bit  story;  an'  if  the  neighbors  —  (Loud  squall.) 

Lizzie  (aside  to  John).  He's  fair  daft! 

John  (aghast).  Ye'd  no  send  him  to  — 

IjIzzie  (reproachfully) .  John! 

(A  louder  squall  from  the  old  man.) 

Lizzie  (beating  her  hands  together  distractedly).  He'll  be 

—  We  '11  —  He  '11  —  Och ! ! !    (Resigned  and  beaten)    John, 
go  and  bring  wee  Alexander  in  here. 

(John  is  off  like  a  shot.  The  opening  of  the  door  of  the 
other  room  can  be  told  by  the  burst  of  Alexander's 
voice.  The  old  man's  wails  have  stopped  the  second  his 
daughter  capitulated.  John  returns  with  Alexander 
and  bears  him  to  his  grandfather's  waiting  knee.  The 
boy's  tears  and  howls  have  ceased  and  he  is  smiling 
triumphantly.  He  is  of  course  in  his  night-shirt  and  a 
blanket,  which  Grandpa  wraps  round  him,  turning 
toward  the  fire.) 
Lizzie  (looking  on  with  many  nods  of  the  head  and  smacks 

of  the  lips) .  There  you  are !  That 's  the  kind  o'  boy  he  is. 

Greet  his  heart  oot  for  a  thing  an'  stop  the  moment  he 

gets  it. 
David.  Dae  ye  expect  him  to  gae  on  after  he's  got  it? 

Ah,  but,  Alexander,  ye  didna  get  it  yer  lane  this  time;  it 

took  the  twa  o'  us.  An'  hard  work  it  was  for  the  Auld  Yin ! 

Man !  (Playing  hoarse)  I  doot  I  've  enough  voice  left  for  a 

—  (Bursting  out  very  loud  and  making  the  boy  laugh.)  Aweel ! 
Whit's  it  gaein'  to  be  —  eh.'' 

[Curtain] 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS* 

LADY   GREGORY 

CHARACTERS 

Bartley  Fallon  James  Ryan 

!Mrs.  Fallon  Mrs.  Tarpey 

Jack  Smith  IVIrs.  Tully 

Shawn  Early  Joe  Muldoon,  a  policeman 

Tim  Casey  A  Removable  Magistrate 

SCENE:  The  outskirts  of  a  Fair.  An  Apple  Stall.  Mrs. 
Tarpey  sitting  at  it.  Magistr.\te  and  Pouceman 
cjitcr. 

Magistrate.  So  that  is  the  Fair  Green.  Cattle  and 
sheep  and  mud.   No  system.   What  a  repulsive  sight ! 

Policeman.  That  is  so,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  I  suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  of  disorder 
in  this  place? 

Policeman.  There  is. 

Magistrate.  Common  assault? 

Policeman.  It's  common  enough. 

Magistrate,  .\grarian  crime,  no  doubt? 

PoLicKLiAN.  Tiiat  is  so. 

Magistrate.  Boycotting?  Maiming  of  cattle?  Firing 
into  houses? 

'  Included  by  spcci.al  porniission  of  I^dy  Gregory  mid  of  Messrs.  G .  P. 
Piif  nam's  Sons,  the  ptihlisliers  of  Srrrn  Short  Plays  (1909*.  nnil  other  vol- 
umes of  Lady  Gregory's  works,  .\pplication  for  acting  rights  must  be 
made  to  Samuel  rrcneb,  <8  West  38lh  Street,  New  York  City. 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  15 

Policeman.  There  was  one  time,  and  there  might  be 
again. 

^Iagistrate.  That  is  bad.  Does  it  go  any  farther  than 
that? 

Policeman.  Far  enough,  indeed. 

IVIagistrate.  Homicide,  then!  This  district  has  been 
shamefully  neglected !  I  will  change  all  that.  When  I  was 
in  the  Andaman  Islands,  my  system  never  failed.  Yes,  yes, 
I  will  change  all  that.  What  has  that  woman  on  her  stall? 

Policeman.  Apples  mostly  —  and  sweets. 

Magistrate.  Just  see  if  there  are  any  unlicensed  goods 
underneath  —  spirits  or  the  like.  We  had  evasions  of  the 
salt  tax  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 

Policeman  (sniffing  cautiously  and  upsetting  a  heap  of 
apples).  I  see  no  spirits  here  —  or  salt. 

INIagistrate  {to  Mrs.  Tarpey).  Do  you  know  this  town 
well,  my  good  woman? 

Mrs.  Tarpey  {Iiolding  out  some  apples).  A  penny  the 
haK-dozen,  your  honor. 

Policeman  {shouiing).  The  gentleman  is  asking  do  you 
know  the  town!  He's  the  new  magistrate! 

INIrs.  Tarpey  {rising  and  du/iking) .  Do  I  know  the  town? 
I  do,  to  be  sure. 

IVIagistrate  {shouting).  What  is  its  chief  business? 

IVIrs.  Tarpey.  Business,  is  it?  What  business  would 
the  people  here  have  but  to  be  minding  one  another's  busi- 
ness? 

Magistrate.  I  mean  what  trade  have  they? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Not  a  trade.  No  trade  at  all  but  to  be 
talking. 

Magistrate.  I  shall  learn  nothing  here. 

(James  Ryan  comes  in,  pipe  in  mouth.  Seeing  Magis- 
trate, he  retreats  quickly,  taking  pipe  from  mouth.) 

Magistrate.  The  smoke  from  that  man's  pipe  had  a 


16  SPREADING  THE  NE\YS 

greenish  look;  he  may  be  growing  unhceused  tobacco  at 
home.  I  wish  I  had  Ijrought  my  telescope  to  this  district. 
Come  to  the  post-office;  I  will  telegraph  for  it.  I  found  it 
very  useful  in  the  Andaman  Islands. 

(Magistrate  and  Policeman  go  out  left.) 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Bad  luck  to  Jo  Muldoon,  knocking  my 
apples  this  way  and  that  way.  {Begiri:}  arranging  them.) 
Showing  off  he  was  to  the  new  magistrate. 

{Enter  Bartley  Fallon  and  Mrs.  Fallon.) 

Bartley.  Indeed  it's  a  poor  country  and  a  scarce  coun- 
try to  be  living  in.  But  I  'm  thinking  if  I  went  to  America 
it 's  long  ago  the  day  I  'd  be  dead ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  So  you  might,  indeed. 

{She  puts  her  banket  on  a  barrel  and  begins  putting  par- 
cels in  it,  taking  them  from,  under  her  cloak.) 

Bartley.  And  it's  a  great  expense  for  a  poor  man  to  be 
buried  in  America. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Never  fear,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I  '11  give 
you  a  good  burying  the  day  you'll  die. 

Bartley.  Maybe  it's  yourself  will  be  buried  in  the 
graveyard  of  Cloonmara  before  me,  Mary  Fallon,  and  I 
myself  that  will  be  dying  unbeknownst  some  night,  and  no 
one  a-ncar  me.  And  the  cat  itself  may  be  gone  straying 
through  the  country,  and  the  mice  squealing  over  the  quilt. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  I^ave  off  talking  of  dying.  It  might  be 
twenty  years  you'll  be  living  yet. 

Bartley  {with  a  deep  sigh).  I *m  thinking  if  I  '11  be  living 
at  the  end  of  twenty  years,  it 's  a  very  old  man  I  '11  be  then ! 

Mrs.  Tahi'KY  {turns  and  sees  them).  Good-morrow, 
Bartley  Fallon;  good-morrow,  Mrs.  Fallon.  NVell,  Bartley, 
you'll  find  no  cause  for  complaining  to-day;  they  are  all 
saying  it  was  a  good  fair. 

Bartley  {raising  his  voice).  It  was  not  a  good  fair, 
Mrs.  Tarpey.  It  was  a  scattered  sort  of  a  fair.  If  we  did  n't 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  17 

expect  more,  we  got  less.  That's  the  way  with  me  always: 
whatever  I  have  to  sell  goes  down  and  whatever  I  have  to 
buy  goes  up.  If  there 's  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this 
world,  it 's  on  myself  it  pitches,  like  a  flock  of  crows  on  seed 
potatoes. 

Mrs.  Fallon.    Leave  off  talking  of  misfortunes,  and 

listen  to  Jack  Smith  that  is  coming  the  way,  and  he  singing. 

{Voice  of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing) 

I  thought,  my  first  love. 

There  'd  be  but  one  house  between  you  and  me, 
And  I  thought  I  would  find 

Yourself  coaxing  my  child  on  your  knee. 
Over  the  tide 

I  would  leap  with  the  leap  of  a  swan. 
Till  I  came  to  the  side 

Of  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man! 

(Jack  Smith  comes  in;  he  is  a  red-haired  man,  and  is 
carrying  a  hayfork.) 
IMrs.  Tarpey.  That  should  be  a  good  song  if  I  had  my 
hearing. 

Mrs.  Fallon  (shouting).   It's  "The  Red-haired  Man's 
Wife." 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  I  know  it  well.  That 's  the  song  that  has 
a  skin  on  it! 

(She  turns  her  back  to  them  and  goes  on  arranging  her 
apples.) 
Mrs.  Fallon.  Where's  herself.  Jack  Smith? 
Jack  Smith.  She  was  delayed  with  her  washing;  bleach- 
ing the  clothes  on  the  hedge  she  is,  and  she  dare  n't  leave 
them,  with  all  the  tinkers  that  do  be  passing  to  the  fair. 
It  is  n't  to  the  fair  I  came  myself,  but  up  to  the  Five-Acre 
Meadow  I  'm  going,  where  I  have  a  contract  for  the  hay. 
We  '11  get  a  share  of  it  into  tramps  to-day. 

(He  lays  dovm  hayfork  and  lights  his  pipe.) 
Bartley.  You  will  not  get  it  into  tramps  to-day.  The 


18  SPREADING  TIIE  NEWS 

rain  will  be  down  on  it  by  evening,  and  on  myself  too.  It 's 
.seldom  I  ever  started  on  a  journey  but  the  rain  would  come 
down  on  me  before  I  'd  find  any  place  of  shelter. 

Jack  Smith.  If  it  did  n't  itself,  Bartlcy,  it  is  my  belief 
you  would  carry  a  leaky  pail  on  your  head  in  place  of  a 
hat,  the  way  you'd  not  be  without  some  cause  of  com- 
plaining. 

{A  voice  heard:  "Go  on,  now,  go  on  out  o"  that.  Go  on, 
I  say.") 

Jack  Smith.  Look  at  that  young  mare  of  Pat  Ryan's 
that  is  backing  into  Shaughnessy's  bullocks  with  the  dint 
of  the  crowd!  Don't  be  daunted,  Pat,  I'll  give  you  a  hand 
with  her.  {He  goes  out,  tearing  his  hayfork.) 

Mus.  Fallon.  It's  time  for  ourselves  to  be  going  home. 
I  have  all  I  bought  put  in  the  basket.  Look  at  tluTc,  Jack 
Smith's  hayfork  he  left  after  him!  He'll  be  wanting  it. 
(Calls)  Jack  Smith!  Jack  Smith!  —  lie's  gone  through 
the  crowd;  hurry  after  him,  Bartley,  he'll  be  wanting  it. 

Baktley.  I'll  do  that.  This  is  no  safe  place  to  be  leav- 
ing it.  {lie  takes  np  fork  awkwardly  and  upsets  the  ba.^ket.) 
Look  at  that  now!  If  there  is  any  basket  in  the  fair  upset, 
it  must  be  our  own  basket!  {He  goes  out  to  right.) 

IMus.  Fallon.  Get  out  of  that !  It  is  your  own  fault,  it  is. 
Talk  of  misfortunes  and  misfortunes  will  come.  Glory  be! 
Look  at  my  new  egg-cups  rolling  in  every  part  —  and  my 
two  pound  of  sugar  with  the  pai)er  broke  — 

IMits.  Tahi'KY  {turning  from  stall).  God  help  us,  Mrs. 
Fallon,  what  happened  your  basket.' 

Mils.  Fallon.  It's  himself  that  knocked  it  down, 
bad  manners  to  him.  {Putting  things  up)  My  grand  sugar 
tlmt's  destroyed,  and  he'll  not  drink  his  tea  without  it.  I 
had  i)est  go  back  to  the  shop  for  mort\  much  good  may  it 
do  him! 

{Enter  Tim  Casey.) 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  19 

Tim  Casey.  ^Vlle^e  is  Bartley  Fallon,  Mrs.  Fallon?  I 
want  a  word  with  him  before  he'll  leave  the  fair.  I  was 
afraid  he  might  have  gone  home  by  this,  for  he's  a  tem- 
perate man. 

'Mrs.  Fallon.  I  wish  he  did  go  home!  It'd  be  best  for 
me  if  he  went  home  straight  from  the  fair  green,  or  if  he 
never  came  with  me  at  all!  Where  is  he,  is  it.^*  He's  gone 
up  the  road  (jerks  elbow)  following  Jack  Smith  with  a 
hayfork. 

(She  goes  out  to  left.) 
Tim  Casey.  Follo\^ang  Jack  Smith  with  a  hayfork!  Did 
ever  anyone  hear  the  like  of  that.  (Shouts)  Did  you  hear 
that  news,  Mrs.  Tarpey? 

]Mrs.  Tarpey.  I  heard  no  news  at  all. 
Tevi  Casey.  Some  dispute  I  suppose  it  was  that  rose 
between  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon,  and  it  seems  Jack 
made  off,  and  Bartley  is  following  him  with  a  hayfork! 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Is  he  now?  Well,  that  was  quick  work! 
It 's  not  ten  minutes  since  the  two  of  them  were  here,  Bart- 
ley going  home  and  Jack  going  to  the  Five- Acre  Meadow; 
and  I  had  my  apples  to  settle  up,  that  Jo  Muldoon  of  the 
police  had  scattered,  and  when  I  looked  round  again  Jack 
Smith  was  gone,  and  Bartley  Fallon  was  gone,  and  Mrs. 
Fallon's  basket  upset,  and  all  in  it  strewed  upon  the  ground 
—  the  tea  here  —  the  two  pound  of  sugar  there  —  the  egg- 
cups  there.  Look,  now,  what  a  great  hardship  the  deaf- 
ness puts  upon  me,  that  I  did  n't  hear  the  commincement 
of  the  fight!  Wait  till  I  tell  James  Ryan  that  I  see  below; 
he  is  a  neighbor  of  Bartley 's;  it  would  be  a  pity  if  he 
wouldn't  hear  the  news! 

(She  goes  out.  Enter  Shawn  Early  and  IVIrs.  Tully.) 

Tim  Casey.  Listen,  Shawn  Early!   Listen,  Mrs.  Tully, 

to  the  news!  Jack  Smith  and  Bartley  Fallon  had  a  falling 

out,  and  Jack  knocked  Mrs.  Fallon's  basket  into  the  road, 


20  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

and  Bartley  made  an  attack  on  Lira  with  a  hayfork,  and 
away  with  Jack,  and  Bartley  after  him.  Look  at  the  sugar 
here  yet  on  the  road ! 

Shawn  Early.  Do  you  tell  me  so?  Well,  that's  a  queer 
thing,  and  Bartley  Fallon  so  quiet  a  man! 

Mks.  Tully.  I  would  n't  wonder  at  all.  I  would  never 
think  well  of  a  man  that  would  have  that  sort  of  a  molder- 
ing  look.   It's  likely  he  has  overtaken  Jack  by  this. 

(Enter  James  Ryan  and  Mrs.  Tarpey.) 

James  Ryan.  That  is  great  news  INIrs.  Tarpey  was  tell- 
ing me!  I  suppose  that's  what  brought  the  police  and  the 
magistrate  up  this  way.  I  was  wondering  to  see  them  in  it 
a  while  ago. 

Shawn  Early.  The  police  after  them?  Bartley  Fallon 
must  have  injured  Jack  so.  They  would  n't  meddle  in  a 
fight  that  was  only  for  show! 

]\Irs.  Tully.  AVhy  would  n't  he  injure  him?  There  was 
many  a  man  killed  with  no  more  of  a  weapon  than  a  hay- 
fork. 

James  Ryan.  Wait  till  I  run  north  as  far  as  Kelly's  bar 
to  spread  the  news! 

(lie  goes  out.) 

Tim  Casey.  I'll  go  tell  Jack  Smith's  first  cousin  that  is 
standing  there  south  of  the  church  after  selling  his  lambs. 

(Goes  out.) 

Mrs.  Tully.  I'll  go  telling  a  few  of  the  neighbors  I  see 
beyond  to  the  west. 

(Goe.f  out.) 

Shawn  Early.  I  '11  give  word  of  it  beyond  at  the  east  of 
the  green. 

(Is  going  out  when  Mrs.  Tarpey  aeizes  hold  of  him.) 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stop  a  miinite,  Shawn  Early,  antl  tell  me 
did  you  sec  red  Jack  Smith's  wife,  Kitty  Keary,  in  any 
place? 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  21 

Shawn  Early.  I  did.  At  her  own  house  she  was,  drying 
clothes  on  the  hedge  as  I  passed. 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  What  did  you  say  she  was  doiug.?^ 

Shawn  Early  {breaking  away).  Laying  out  a  sheet  on 
the  hedge. 

(He  goes.) 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Laying  out  a  sheet  for  the  dead!  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  Jack  Smith  dead,  and  his  wife 
laying  out  a  sheet  for  his  burying!  (Calls  out)  Why  did  n't 
you  tell  me  that  before,  Shawn  Early?  Is  n't  the  deafness 
the  great  hardship?  Half  the  world  might  be  dead  without 
me  knowing  of  it  or  getting  word  of  it  at  all !  (She  sits  down 
and  rocks  herself .)  O  my  poor  Jack  Smith!  To  be  going  to 
his  work  so  nice  and  so  hearty,  and  to  be  left  stretched  on 
the  ground  in  the  full  light  of  the  day ! 

(Enter  Tim  Casey.) 

Tni  Casey.  WTiat  is  it,  Mrs.  Tarpey?  What  happened 
since? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  O  my  poor  Jack  Smith ! 

Tim  Casey.  Did  Bartley  overtake  him? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  O  the  poor  man ! 

Tim  Casey.  Is  it  killed  he  is? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Stretched  in  the  Five-Acre  Meadow! 

Tim  Casey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us !  Is  that  a  fact? 

IVIrs.  Tarpey.  Without  the  rites  of  the  Church  or  a 
ha'porth ! 

Tim  Casey.  Who  was  telling  you? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  And  the  wife  laying  out  a  sheet  for  his 
corpse.  (Sits  up  and  ivipes  her  eyes.)  I  suppose  they  '11  wake 
him  the  same  as  another? 

(Enter  JVIrs.   Tully,   Shawn   Early,   and   James 
Ryan.) 

Mrs.  Tully.  There  is  great  talk  about  this  work  in 
every  quarter  of  the  fair. 


22  SPREADING   THE  NEWS 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Ochoiie!  cold  and  dead.  And  myself 
maybe  the  last  he  was  speaking  to  I 

James  Ryax.  The  I>ord  save  us!  Is  it  dead  he  is? 

Tim  Casey.  Dead  surely,  and  the  wife  getting  provision 
for  the  wake. 

Shawn  Early.  Well,  now,  had  n't  Hartley  Fallon  great 
venom  in  him.' 

I\Ihs.  Tilly.  You  may  be  sure  he  had  some  cause. 
Why  would  he  have  made  an  end  of  him  if  he  had  not.' 
{To  Mrs.  Tarpey,  raising  her  voice)  What  was  it  rose  the 
dispute  at  all,  Mrs.  Tarj)ey  ? 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Not  a  one  of  me  knows.  The  last  I  saw  of 
them,  Jack  Smith  was  standing  there,  and  Hartley  Fallon 
was  standing  there,  quiet  and  easy,  and  he  listening  to 
"The  Red-haired  Man's  Wife." 

Mrs.  Tully.  Do  you  hear  that,  Tim  Casey.'  Do  you 
hear  that,  Shawn  Early  and  James  Ryan?  Hartley  Fallon 
was  here  this  morning  listening  to  red  Jack  Smith's  wife, 
Kitty  Keary  that  was!  Listening  to  her  and  whispering 
with  her!  It  was  .she  started  the  fight  so! 

SiiAW.v  Early.  She  nuist  have  followed  liini  fri)in  her 
own  house.  It  is  likely  some  {xrson  roused  him. 

Tlm  Casey.  I  never  knew,  before.  Hartl<>y  Fallon  was 
great  with  Jack  Smith's  wife. 

Mits.  Tully.  How  would  you  know  it?  Sure  it's  not  in 
the  .streets  they  would  be  calling  it.  If  Mrs.  Fallon  did  n't 
know  of  it ,  and  if  I  that  have  the  next  house  to  them  diil  n't 
know  of  it,  and  if  Jack  Smith  himself  did  n't  know  of  it,  it 
is  not  lik(>ly  you  would  know  of  it.  Tim  Casey. 

Smawx  Early.  Let  Hartley  Fallon  take  charge  of  her 
from  this  out  so,  and  let  hira  provide  for  her.  It  is  little 
])ity  she  will  get  from  any  jH^rson  in  this  parish. 

Tim  Ca.sky.  How  can  he  take  charge  of  her?  Sure  he  has 
a  wife  of  his  own.  Sure  you  don't  think  he'd  turn  soujKir 
and  in.iiiy  her  in  a  Protestant  cliiireli? 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  23 

James  Ryan.  It  would  be  easy  for  him  to  marry  her  if 
he  brought  her  to  America. 

Shawtst  Early.  With  or  without  Kitty  Keary,  beheve 
me,  it  is  for  America  he 's  making  at  this  minute.  I  saw  the 
new  magistrate  and  Jo  Muldoon  of  the  pohce  going  into 
the  post-office  as  I  came  up  —  there  was  hurry  on  them  — 
you  may  be  sure  it  was  to  telegraph  they  went,  the  way 
he  '11  be  stopped  in  the  docks  at  Queenstown ! 

'Mrs.  Tully.  It 's  likely  Kitty  Keary  is  gone  with  him, 
and  not  minding  a  sheet  or  a  wake  at  all.  The  poor  man, 
to  be  deserted  by  his  own  wife,  and  the  breath  hardly  gone 
out  yet  from  his  body  that  is  lying  bloody  in  the  field ! 

,  {Enter  Mrs.  Fallon.) 

Mrs.  Fallon.  What  is  it  the  whole  of  the  town  is  talk- 
ing about?  And  what  is  it  you  yourselves  are  talking  about.'' 
Is  it  about  my  man  Bartley  Fallon  you  are  talking?  Is  it 
lies  about  him  you  are  telling,  saying  that  he  went  killing 
Jack  Smith?  My  grief  that  ever  he  came  into  this  place  at 
all! 

James  Ryan.  Be  easy  now,  IVIrs.  Fallon.  Sure  there  is 
no  one  at  all  in  the  whole  fair  but  is  sorry  for  you ! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Sorry  for  me,  is  it?  Why  would  anyone 
be  sorry  for  me?  Let  you  be  sorry  for  yourselves,  and  that 
there  may  be  shame  on  you  forever  and  at  the  day  of  judg- 
ment, for  the  words  you  are  saying  and  the  lies  you  are 
telling  to  take  away  the  character  of  my  poor  man,  and  to 
take  the  good  name  off  of  him,  and  to  drive  him  to  destruc- 
tion! That  is  what  you  are  doing! 

Shawn  Early.  Take  comfort  now,  Mrs.  Fallon.  The 
police  are  not  so  smart  as  they  think.  Sure  he  might  give 
them  the  slip  yet,  the  same  as  Lynchehaun. 

Mrs.  Tully.  If  they  do  get  him,  and  if  they  do  put  a 
rope  around  his  neck,  there  is  no  one  can  say  he  does  not 
deserve  it ! 


24  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Is  that  what  you  arc  saying,  Bridget 
TuUy ,  and  is  that  what  you  think?  I  tell  you  it 's  too  much 
talk  you  have,  making  yourself  out  to  be  such  a  great  one, 
and  to  he  running  down  every  resj^ectahle  person!  A  rope, 
is  it?  It  is  n't  much  of  a  rope  was  needed  to  tie  up  your  own 
furniture  the  day  you  came  into  Martin  Tully's  house,  and 
you  never  bringing  as  much  as  a  blanket,  or  a  penny,  or  a 
suit  of  clothes  with  you,  and  I  myself  bringing  seventy 
pounds  and  two  feather  beds.  And  now  you  are  stiffer  than 
a  woman  would  have  a  hundred  pounds!  It  is  too  much 
talk  the  whole  of  you  have.  A  rope  is  it?  I  tell  you  the 
whole  of  this  town  is  full  of  liars  and  schemers  that  would 
hang  you  up  for  half  a  glass  of  whiskey  (turning  to  go). 
People  they  are  you  would  n't  believe  as  much  as  daylight 
from,  without  you'd  get  up  to  have  a  look  at  it  yourself. 
Killing  Jack  Smith  indeed!  ^^^lere  are  you  at  all,  Bartley, 
till  I  bring  you  out  of  this?  My  nice  quiet  little  man!  My 
decent  comrade!  He  that  is  as  kind  and  as  harmless  as  an 
innocent  beast  of  the  field!  He'll  be  doing  no  harm  at  all  if 
he'll  shed  the  blood  of  some  of  you  after  this  day's  work! 
That  much  would  be  no  harm  at  all.  {Calls  out)  Bartley! 
Bartley  Fallon!  ^^^lere  are  you?  {doing  out)  Did  anyone 
sec  Bartley  Fallon? 

(.1//  turn  to  look  after  her.) 

Jamks  Ryan.  It  is  hard  for  her  to  believe  any  such  a 
thing,  God  help  her! 

(Enter  Bartley  F.\llon /rom  right,  carrying  hayfork.) 

Bautlkv.  It  is  what  I  often  said  to  myself,  if  there  is 
ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  world  it  is  on  myself  it 
is  sure  to  come! 

(.1//  turn  round  anil  fare  him.) 

Bartley.  To  be  going  about  with  this  fork  and  to  find 
no  one  to  take  it,  and  no  place  to  leave  it  down,  and  I  want- 
ing to  be  gone  out  of  this  —  Is  that  you,  Shawn  I'arly? 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  25 

{Holds  out  fork.)  It's  well  I  met  you.  You  have  no  call  to 
be  leaving  the  fair  for  a  while  the  way  I  have,  and  how  can 
I  go  till  I  'm  rid  of  this  fork?  Will  you  take  it  and  keep  it 
until  such  time  as  Jack  Smith  — 

Shawn  Early  (backing).  I  will  not  take  it,  Bartley  Fal- 
lon, I 'm  very  thankful  to  you! 

Bartley  (turning  to  apple  stall).  Look  at  it  now,  Mrs. 
Tarpey ,  it  was  here  I  got  it ;  let  me  thrust  it  in  under  the 
stall.  It  will  lie  there  safe  enough,  and  no  one  will  take 
notice  of  it  until  such  time  as  Jack  Smith  — 

Mrs.  Tarpey.  Take  your  fork  out  of  that !  Is  it  to  put 
trouble  on  me  and  to  destroy  me  you  want?  putting  it  there 
for  the  police  to  be  rooting  it  out  maybe. 

(Thrusts  him  hack.) 

Bartley.  That  is  a  very  unneighborly  thing  for  you  to 
do,  Mrs.  Tarpey.  Had  n't  I  enough  care  on  me  with  that 
fork  before  this,  running  up  and  down  with  it  like  the 
swinging  of  a  clock,  and  af card  to  lay  it  down  in  any  place ! 
I  wish  I  'd  never  touched  it  or  meddled  with  it  at  all! 

James  Ryan.  It  is  a  pity,  indeed,  you  ever  did. 

Bartley.  Will  you  yourself  take  it,  James  Ryan?  You 
were  always  a  neighborly  man. 

Jajmes  Ryan  (backing) .  There  is  many  a  thing  I  would 
do  for  you,  Bartley  Fallon,  but  I  won't  do  that ! 

Shawn  Early.  I  tell  you  there  is  no  man  will  give  you 
any  help  or  any  encouragement  for  this  day's  work.  If  it 
was  something  agrarian  now  — 

Bartley.  If  no  one  at  all  will  take  it,  maybe  it 's  best  to 
give  it  up  to  the  police. 

Tim  Casey.  There 'd  be  a  welcome  for  it  with  them 
surely ! 

(Laughter.) 

Mrs.  Tully.  And  it  is  to  the  police  Kitty  Keary  herself 
will  be  brought. 


26  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

Mas.  Tarpey  (rocking  io  and  fro).  I  wonder  now  who 
will  take  the  expense  of  the  wake  for  poor  Jack  Smith? 

Bartley.  The  wake  for  Jack  Smith! 

Tim  Casey,  ^^^ly  would  n't  he  get  a  wake  as  well  as  an- 
other? ^Vould  you  begrudge  him  that  much? 

Bartley.  Red  Jack  Smith  dead!  Who  was  telling  you? 

Shawn  Early.  The  whole  to\Mi  knows  of  it  by  this. 

Bartley.  Do  they  say  what  way  did  he  die? 

James  Ryan.  You  don't  know  that  yourself,  I  suppose, 
Bartley  Fallon?  You  don't  know  he  was  followed  and  that 
he  was  laid  dead  with  the  stab  of  a  hayfork? 

Bartley.  The  stab  of  a  ha^-f ork ! 

Shawn  Early.  You  don't  know,  I  suppose,  that  the 
body  was  found  in  the  Five-Acre  Meadow? 

Bartley.  The  Five- Acre  Meadow! 

Tim  Casey.  It  is  likely  you  don't  know  that  the  police 
are  after  the  man  that  did  it? 

Bartley.  The  man  that  did  it! 

Mrs.  Tully.  You  don't  know,  maybe,  that  he  was  made 
away  with  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  his  wife? 

Bartley.  Kitty  Keary,  his  wife!  [SUs  down  bewildered.) 

^Irs.  Tully.  And  what  have  you  to  say  now,  Bartley 
Fallon? 

Bartley  (crossing  himself).  I  to  bring  that  fork  here, 
and  to  find  that  news  before  nicl  It  is  much  if  I  can  ever 
stir  from  this  place  at  all,  or  reach  as  far  as  the  road! 

Tim  Casey.  Look,  boys,  at  the  new  magistrate,  and  Jo 
Mtildoon  along  with  him!  It's  best  for  us  to  quit  this. 

Shawn  Early.  That  is  so.  It  is  best  not  to  be  niixetl  in 
this  business  at  all. 

Jamks  Ryan.  Bad  as  he  is,  I  would  n't  like  to  bo  an  in- 
former against  any  man. 

(All  hurry  away  except  Mrs.  Tarpkv.  trho  remains  be- 
hind her  stall.   Enter  Magistrate  and  Policeman.) 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  27 

IVIagistrate.  I  knew  the  district  was  in  a  bad  state,  but 
I  did  not  expect  to  be  confronted  with  a  miu-der  at  the  first 
fair  I  came  to. 

Policeman.  I  am  sure  you  did  not,  indeed. 

Magistrate.  It  was  well  I  had  not  gone  home.  I  caught 
a  few  words  here  and  there  that  roused  my  suspicions. 

Policeman.  So  they  would,  too. 

IVIagistrate.  You  heard  the  same  story  from  everyone 
you  asked? 

Policeman.  The  same  story  —  or  if  it  was  not  altogether 
the  same,  anyway  it  was  no  less  than  the  first  story. 

IVIagistrate.  What  is  that  man  doing?  He  is  sitting 
alone  with  a  hayfork.  He  has  a  guilty  look.  The  murder 
was  done  with  a  hayfork! 

Policeman  {in  a  tvhisper).  That's  the  very  man  they 
say  did  the  act,  Bartley  Fallon  himself! 

]VL\gistrate.  He  must  have  found  escape  difficult  — • 
he  is  trying  to  brazen  it  out.  A  convict  in  the  Andaman  Is- 
lands tried  the  same  game,  but  he  could  not  escape  my 
system!  Stand  aside  —  Don't  go  far  —  Have  the  handcuffs 
ready.  (He  walks  up  to  Bartley,  folds  his  arms,  and  stands 
before  him.)  Here,  my  man,  do  you  know  anything  of  John 
Smith? 

Bartley.  Of  John  Smith!  Who  is  he,  now? 

Policeman.  Jack  Smith,  sir — 'Red  Jack  Smith! 

Magistrate  (coming  a  step  nearer  and  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder).  Where  is  Jack  Smith? 

Bartley  (with  a  deep  sigh,  and  shaking  his  head  slowly) . 
Where  is  he,  indeed? 

Magistrate.  What  have  you  to  tell? 

Bartley.  It  is  where  he  was  this  morning,  standing  in 
this  spot,  singing  his  share  of  songs  —  no,  but  lighting  his 
pipe  —  scraping  a  match  on  the  sole  of  his  shoe  — 

Magistrate.  I  ask  you,  for  the  third  time,  where  is  he? 


28  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

Bartley.  I  would  n't  like  to  say  that.  It  is  a  great  mys- 
tery, and  it  is  hard  to  say  of  any  man,  did  he  earn  hatred 
or  love. 

Magistrate.  Tell  me  all  you  know. 

Bartley.  All  that  I  know  —  Well,  there  are  the  three 
estates;  there  is  Limbo,  and  there  is  Purgatory,  and  there 
is  — 

Magistr.\te.  Nonsense!  This  is  trifling!  Get  to  the 
point. 

Bartley.  Maybe  you  don't  hold  with  the  clergy  so? 
That  is  the  teaching  of  the  clergy.  Mayl)C  you  hold  with 
the  old  people.  It  is  what  they  do  be  saying,  that  the  shadow 
goes  wandering,  and  the  soul  is  tired,  and  the  body  is  taking 
a  rest  —  The  shadow!  (>>tarts  up.)  I  was  nearly  sure  I  saw 
Jack  Smith  not  ten  minutes  ago  at  the  corner  of  the  forge, 
and  I  lost  him  again  —  Was  it  his  ghost  I  saw,  do  you 
think? 

Magistr.\te  {to  Policeman).  Conscience-struck!  lie 
will  confess  all  now! 

Bartley.  Ilis  ghost  to  come  before  me!  It  is  likely  it 
was  on  account  of  the  fork!  I  to  have  it  and  he  to  have  no 
way  to  defend  himself  the  time  he  met  with  his  death! 

Magistr.\te  (fo  Policeman).  I  must  note  down  his 
words.  {Takes  out  notebook.  To  Bartley)  I  warn  you 
that  your  words  are  being  noted. 

Bautlky.  If  I  h;id  ha'  run  faster  in  the  beginning,  this 
terror  wouKl  not  be  on  meat  the  latter  end!  Maybe  he  will 
cast  it  up  against  me  at  the  day  of  judgment  —  I  would  n't 
wonder  at  all  at  that. 

Magistrate  (writing).  At  the  day  of  judgment  — 

Bartley.  It  was  soon  for  his  ghost  to  appear  to  me  — 
is  it  coming  after  nio  always  by  day  it  will  be,  and  strip- 
ping the  rlotluvs  olT  in  the  night  time?  —  I  would  n't  won- 
der at  all  al  I  hat,  being  as  I  am  an  unfortunate  man! 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  29 

Magistrate  {sternly).  Tell  me  this  truly.  What  was 
the  motive  of  this  crime? 

Bartley.  The  motive,  is  it? 

IVIagistrate.  Yes,  the  motive;  the  cause. 

Bartley.  I  'd  sooner  not  say  that. 

IVIagistrate.  You  'd  better  tell  me  truly.  Was  it  money  ? 

Bartley.  Not  at  all!  What  did  poor  Jack  Smith  ever 
have  in  his  pockets  unless  it  might  be  his  hands  that  would 
be  in  them? 

Magistrate.  Any  dispute  about  land? 

Bartley  (indignanily) .  Not  at  all !  He  never  was  a  grab- 
ber or  grabbed  from  anyone ! 

Magistrate.  You  will  find  it  better  for  you  if  you  tell 
me  at  once. 

Bartley.  I  tell  you  I  would  n't  for  the  whole  world  wish 
to  say  what  it  was  —  it  is  a  thing  I  would  not  like  to  be 
talking  about. 

Magistrate.  There  is  no  use  in  hiding  it.  It  will  be  dis- 
covered in  the  end. 

Bartley.  Well,  I  suppose  it  will,  seeing  that  mostly 
everybody  knows  it  before.  Whisper  here  now.  I  will  tell 
no  lie;  where  would  be  the  use?  {Piits  his  hand  to  his  mouth 
and  IMagistrate  stoops.)  Don't  be  putting  the  blame  on 
the  parish,  for  such  a  thing  was  never  done  in  the  parish 
before  —  it  was  done  for  the  sake  of  Kitty  Keary,  Jack 
Smith's  wife. 

Magistrate  (to  Policeman).  Put  on  the  handcuffs. 
We  have  been  saved  some  trouble.  I  knew  he  would  con- 
fess if  taken  in  the  right  way. 

(Policeman  puts  on  handcuffs.) 

Bartley.  Handcuffs  now!  Glory  be!  I  always  said,  if 
there  was  ever  any  misfortune  coming  to  this  place  it  was 
on  myself  it  would  fall.  I  to  be  in  handcuffs!  There's  no 
wonder  at  all  in  that. 


30  SPREADING  THE   NEWS 

{Enter  Mrs.  Fallos,  foUoired  by  the  re^i.  She  is  looking 
back  at  them  as  she  speaks.) 

Mrs.  Fallo-V.  Telling  lies  the  whole  of  the  people  of  this 
town  are;  telling  lies,  telling  lies  as  fast  as  a  dog  will  trot ! 
Speaking  against  niy  poor  respectable  man!  Saying  he 
made  an  end  of  Jack  Smith!  My  decent  comrade!  There 
is  no  better  man  and  no  kinder  man  in  the  whole  of  the 
five  parishes!  It's  little  annoyance  he  ever  gave  to  any- 
one! (Turns  and  sees  him.)  What  in  the  earthly  world 
do  I  see  before  me?  Bartlcy  Fallon  in  charge  of  the  police! 
Handcuffs  on  him!  O  Bartley,  hartley,  what  did  you  do 
at  all  at  all? 

Bartley.  O  ^Vlary,  there  h;is  a  great  misfortune  come 
upon  me!  It  is  what  I  always  said,  that  if  there  is  ever  any 
misfortune  — 

]\Ihs.  Fallon.  What  did  he  do  at  all,  or  is  it  bewitched 
I  am? 

Magistrate.  This  man  has  been  arrested  on  a  charge 
of  murder. 

Mrs.  Fallon,  Whose  charge  is  that?  Don't  l)clicve 
them!  They  are  all  liars  in  this  place!  Give  me  back  my 
man! 

Maglstrate.  It  is  natural  you  shouKl  take  his  part,  but 
you  have  no  cause  of  complaint  against  your  neighbors. 
He  has  been  arrested  for  the  murder  of  John  Smith,  on  his 
own  confession. 

Mrs.  Fallon.  The  saints  of  heaven  protect  us!  And 
what  did  he  want  killing  Jack  Smith? 

Magistuatp:.  It  is  best  you  should  know  all.  He  did  it 
on  account  of  a  love-afTair  with  the  murdered  man's  wife. 

Mns.  Fallon  (sitting  down).  With  Jack  Smith's  wife! 
With  Kitty  Keary!  —  Ochonc,  the  traitor! 

The  Crowd.  A  great  shame,  indeed.  He  is  a  traitor, 
indeed. 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  31 

Mrs.  Tully.  To  America  he  was  bringing  her,  Mrs. 
Fallon. 

Bartley.  What  are  you  saying,  Mary?  I  tell  you  — 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Don't  say  a  word!  I  won't  listen  to  any 
word  you  '11  say !  (Stops  her  ears.)  Oh,  is  n't  he  the  treacher- 
ous villain?  Ohone  go  deo! 

Bartley.  Be  quiet  till  I  speak!  Listento  what  Isay! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Sitting  beside  me  on  the  ass  car  coming 
to  the  town,  so  quiet  and  so  respectable,  and  treachery  like 
that  in  his  heart! 

Bartley.  Is  it  your  wits  you  have  lost,  or  is  it  I  myself 
that  have  lost  my  wits? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  it 's  hard  I  earned  you,  slaving,  slav- 
ing —  and  you  grumbhng,  and  sighing,  and  coughing,  and 
discontented,  and  the  priest  wore  out  anointing  you,  with 
all  the  times  you  threatened  to  die ! 

Bartley.  Let  you  be  quiet  till  I  tell  you! 

Mrs.  Fallon.  You  to  bring  such  a  disgrace  into  the 
parish.  A  thing  that  was  never  heard  of  before! 

Bartley.  Will  you  shut  your  mouth  and  hear  me 
speaking? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  And  if  it  was  for  any  sort  of  a  fine  hand- 
some woman,  but  for  a  little  fistful  of  a  woman  like  Kitty 
Keary,  that's  not  four  feet  high  hardly,  and  not  three 
teeth  in  her  head  unless  she  got  new  ones!  May  God  re- 
ward you,  Bartley  Fallon,  for  the  black  treachery  in  your 
heart  and  the  wickedness  in  your  mind,  and  the  red  blood 
of  poor  Jack  Smith  that  is  wet  upon  your  hand! 

(Voice  of  Jack  Smith  heard  singing^ 

The  sea  shall  be  dry. 

The  earth  under  mourning  and  ban! 

Then  loud  shall  he  cry 

For  the  wife  of  the  red-haired  man! 

Bartley.  It's  Jack  Smith's  voice  —  I    never    knew   a 

ghost  to  sing  before.   It  is  after  myself  and  the  fork  he  is 


32  SPREADING  THE  NEWS 

coming!  (Goes  back.  Enter  Jack  Smith.)  Let  one  of  you 
give  him  the  fork  and  I  will  be  clear  of  him  now  and  for 
eternity! 

Mrs.  T.\rpey.  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us!  Red  Jack 
Smith!  The  man  that  was  going  to  be  waked! 

James  Ryan.  Ls  it  back  from  the  grave  you  are  come? 

Shawn  Early.  Is  it  alive  you  are,  or  is  it  dead  you  are? 

Tim  Casey.  Is  it  yourself  at  all  that's  in  it? 

Mrs.  Tully.  Is  it  letting  on  you  were  to  be  dead? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  Dead  or  alive,  let  you  stop  Kitty  Keary, 
your  wife,  from  bringing  my  man  away  with  her  to 
America! 

Jack  Smith.  It  is  what  I  think,  the  wits  are  gone  astray 
on  the  whole  of  you.  What  would  my  wife  want  bringing 
Bart  ley  Fallon  to  America? 

Mrs.  Fallon.  To  leave  yourself,  and  to  get  quit  of  you 
she  wants.  Jack  Smith,  and  to  bring  him  away  from  my- 
self. That's  what  the  two  of  them  had  settled  together. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that  says 
that!  Who  is  it  says  it?  (To  Tim  Casey)  Was  it  yt)U  said 
it?  (To  Shawn  Early)  Was  it  you? 

All  Together  (backing  and  shaking  their  heads).  It 
was  n't  I  said  it! 

Jack  Smith.  Tell  me  the  name  of  any  man  that  said  it! 

All  Together  (pointing  to  Bartley).  It  wjis  him  that 
said  it! 

Jack  Smith.  I/ct  me  at  him  till  I  break  his  head! 

(Bartley  backs  in  terror.   Neighbors  hold  Jack  Smith 
back.) 

Jack  Smith  (frying  to  free  himself).  Ix-t  me  at  him!  Is 
n't  he  the  j)leasant  sort  of  a  scarecrow  for  any  wi^nan  t<i  be 
crossing  the  ocean  with!  It 's  back  from  the  docks  of  New 
York  he'd  be  turned  (trying  to  rush  at  him  again),  with  a  lie 
in  his  mouth  and  trcachcrv  in  his  heart,  and  anitthcr  man's 


SPREADING  THE  NEWS  33 

wife  by  his  side,  and  he  passing  her  off  as  his  own !  Let  me 
at  him,  can't  you? 

{Makes  another  rush,  but  is  held  back.) 

]\L\GisTRATE  (pointing  to  Jack  Smith).  Policeman,  put 
the  handcuffs  on  this  man.  I  see  it  all  now.  A  case  of  false 
impersonation,  a  conspiracy  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice. 
There  was  a  case  in  the  Andaman  Islands,  a  murderer  of 
the  Mopsa  tribe,  a  religious  enthusiast  — 

Policeman.  So  he  might  be,  too. 

Magistrate.  We  must  take  both  these  men  to  the 
scene  of  the  murder.  We  must  confront  them  with  the 
body  of  the  real  Jack  Smith. 

Jack  Smith.  I'll  break  the  head  of  any  man  that  will 
find  my  dead  body ! 

IVIagistrate.  I'll  call  more  help  from  the  barracks. 

{Blows  FoLiCEMAN^s  whistle.) 

Bartley.  It  is  what  I  am  thinking,  if  myself  and  Jack 
Smith  are  put  together  in  the  one  cell  for  the  night,  the 
handcuffs  will  be  taken  off  him,  and  his  hands  will  be  free, 
and  murder  will  be  done  that  time  surely! 

^Magistrate.  Come  on! 

{They  turn  to  the  right.) 

[Curtain] 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE   KIXG' 

WINTHROP  PARKIIURST 

CHABACTERS 

The  King  of  a  GRE-'^.T  Country 
Ills  Servant 
A  Beggar 

A  chamber  in  the  palace  overlooks  a  courtyard.  The  season  is 
midsummer.  The  windows  of  the  palace  are  open,  ami 
from  a  distance  there  comes  the  sound  of  a  man's  voice 
crying  for  bread.  The  Kisa  sits  in  a  golden  chair.  A 
golden  crown  is  on  his  head,  and  he  holds  in  his  hand  a 
sceptre  tvhich  is  also  of  gold.  A  Servant  stands  by  his 
side,  fanning  him  wiih  an  enormous  fan  of  peacock- 
feathers. 

The  Beggar  (outside).  Bread.  Bread.  Bread.  Give  me 
.some  bread. 

The  Ki.ng  (languidly).  Who  is  that  crying  in  the  .street 
for  bread? 

The  Servant  (fanning).  O  king,  it  is  a  l)eggar. 

The  King.  Why  does  he  cry  for  bread.' 

The  Servant.  O  king,  lie  cries  for  bread  in  order  that  he 
may  fill  his  belly. 

'  Reprinto<l  from  Drama,  No.  3:1,  Fcbrunry,  1910,  by  pormisaion  of  Mr 
rurkhurst  and  the  odltors  of  Drama.  Copyri^jhtiHl.  lOlS,  as  a  (Irnm.itio 
comjMjsifion,  by  Winthrop  Piirkhursl.  All  rife'lifs  of  production  re- 
scrvid  by  aullior. 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING  35 

The  King.  I  do  not  like  the  sound  of  his  voice.  It  an- 
noys me  very  much.  Send  him  away. 

The  Servant  (bowing).  O  king,  he  has  been  sent  away. 

The  King.  If  that  is  so,  then  why  do  I  hear  his  voice? 

The  Servant.  O  king,  he  has  been  sent  away  many 
times,  yet  each  time  that  he  is  sent  away  he  returns  again, 
crying  louder  than  he  did  before. 

The  King.  He  is  very  unwise  to  annoy  me  on  such  a 
warm  day.  He  must  be  punished  for  his  impudence.  Use 
the  lash  on  him. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  it  has  been  done. 

The  King.  Then  bring  out  the  spears. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  the  guards  have  already  bloodied 
their  swords  many  times  driving  him  away  from  the  palace 
gates.  But  it  is  of  no  avail. 

The  King.  Then  bind  him  and  gag  him  if  necessary.  If 
need  be  cut  out  his  tongue.  I  do  not  like  the  sound  of  the 
fellow's  voice.  It  annoys  me  very  much. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  thy  orders  were  obeyed  even 
yesterday. 

The  King  (Jrowning).  No.  That  cannot  be.  A  beggar 
cannot  cry  for  bread  who  has  no  tongue. 

The  Servant.  Behold  he  can  —  if  he  has  grown  another. 

The  King.  What !  Why,  men  are  not  given  more  than 
one  tongue  in  a  lifetime.  To  have  more  than  one  tongue  is 
treason. 

The  Servant.  If  it  is  treason  to  have  more  than  one 
tongue,  O  king,  then  is  this  beggar  surely  guilty  of  treason. 

The  King  (pompously).  The  punishment  for  treason 
is  death.  See  to  it  that  the  fellow  is  slain.  And  do  not  fan 
me  so  languidly.  I  am  very  warm. 

The  Servant  (fanning  more  rapidly).  Behold,  O  great 
and  illustrious  king,  all  thy  commands  were  obeyed  even 
yesterday. 


36  THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING 

The  King.  How!  Do  not  jest  with  thy  king. 

The  Servant.  If  I  jest,  then  there  is  truth  in  a  jest. 
Even  yesterday,  O  king,  as  I  have  tokl  thee,  the  beggar 
which  thou  now  hearest  crying  aloud  in  the  street  was  slain 
by  thy  soldiers  with  a  sword. 

The  King.  Do  ghosts  eat  bread?  Forsooth,  men  who 
have  been  slain  with  a  sword  do  not  go  about  in  the  streets 
crying  for  a  piece  of  bread. 

The  Servant.  Forsooth,  they  do  if  they  are  fashioned 
as  this  beggar. 

The  King.  \Yhy,  heisbutanian.  Surely  he  cannot  have 
more  than  one  life  in  a  lifetime. 

The  Servant.  Listen  to  a  tale,  O  king,  which  happened 
yesterday. 

The  King.  I  am  listening. 

The  Servant.  Thy  soldiers  smote  this  beggar  for  crj'ing 
aloud  in  the  streets  tor  bread,  but  his  wounds  arc  already 
healed.  They  cut  out  his  tongue,  but  he  iininodiatcly  grew 
another.  They  slew  him,  yet  he  is  now  alive. 

The  King.  Ah!  that  is  a  tale  which  I  cannot  understand 
at  all. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  it  may  be  well. 

The  King.  I  cannot  understand  what  thou  sayest, 
citiier. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  that  may  be  well  also. 

The  King.  Thou  art  speaking  now  in  riddles.  I  do  not 
like  riddles.  They  confuse  my  brain. 

The  Servant.  Behold,  O  king,  if  I  sjx'ak  in  ridilles  it  is 
l)ecause  a  riddle  hjis  come  to  pass. 

(The  Bec;oar's  voice  suddenly  cnca  out  liyudli/.) 

The  Beggar  (outside).  Bread.  Bread,  (iive  me  some 
bread. 

The  King.  Ah!  He  is  crj'ing  out  again.  1 1  is  voice  seems 
to  me  louder  than  it  was  before. 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING  37 

The  Servant.  Hunger  is  as  food  to  the  lungs,  O  king. 

The  King.  His  lungs  I  will  wager  are  well  fed.  Ha,  ha! 

The  Servant.  But  alas!  his  stomach  is  quite  empty. 

The  King.  That  is  not  my  business. 

The  Servant.  Should  I  not  perhaps  fling  him  a  crust 
from  the  window^? 

The  King.  No!  To  feed  a  beggar  is  always  foolish. 
Every  crumb  that  is  given  to  a  beggar  is  an  evil  seed  from 
which  springs  another  fellow  like  him. 

The  Beggar  (outside).  Bread.  Bread.  Give  me  some 
bread. 

The  Servant.  He  seems  very  hungry,  O  king. 

The  King.  Yes.  So  I  should  judge. 

The  Servant.  If  thou  wilt  not  let  me  fling  him  a  piece 
of  bread  thine  ears  must  pay  the  debts  of  thy  hand. 

The  King.  A  king  can  have  no  debts. 

The  Servant.  That  is  true,  O  king.  Even  so,  the  noise 
of  this  fellow's  begging  must  annoy  thee  greatly. 

The  King.  It  does. 

The  Servant.  Doubtless  he  craves  only  a  small  crust 
from  thy  table  and  he  would  be  content. 

The  King.  Yea,  doubtless  he  craves  only  to  be  a  king 
and  he  would  be  very  happy  indeed. 

The  Servant.  Do  not  be  hard,  O  king.  Thou  art  ever 
wise  and  just.  This  fellow  is  exceedingly  hungry.  Dost  thou 
not  command  me  to  fling  him  just  one  small  crust  from  the 
window? 

The  King.  My  commands  I  have  already  given  thee. 
See  that  the  beggar  is  driven  away. 

The  Servant.  But  alas!  O  king,  if  he  is  driven  away  he 
will  return  again  even  as  he  did  before. 

The  King.  Then  see  to  it  that  he  is  slain.  I  cannot  be 
annoyed  with  the  sound  of  his  voice. 

The  Servant.  But  alas!  O  great  and  illustrious  king,  if 


38  THE  BEGGAR  .WD   THE   KING 

he  is  slain  he  will  come  to  life  again  even  as  he  did  before. 

The  King.  Ah!  that  is  true.  But  his  voice  troubles  me. 
I  do  not  hke  to  hear  it. 

The  Servant.  His  lungs  are  fattened  with  hunger.  Of  a 
truth  they  are  quite  strong. 

The  King.  Well,  propose  a  remedy  to  weaken  them. 

The  Servant.  A  remedy,  O  king? 

{He  stops  fanning.) 

The  King.  That  is  what  I  said.  A  remedy  —  and  do  not 
stop  fanning  me.  I  am  exceedingly  warm. 

The  Servant  (fanning  vigorously).  A  crust  of  ]>read,  O 
king,  dropped  from  yonder  window  —  forsooth  that  might 
prove  a  remedy. 

The  King  (angrily).  I  have  said  I  will  not  give  him  a 
crust  of  bread.  If  I  gave  him  a  crust  to-day  he  would  be 
just  as  hungry  again  to-morrow,  and  my  troubles  would  be 
as  great  as  before. 

TjieSkkvant.  That  is  true,  O  king.  Thy  mind  is  surely 
Gllod  with  great  learning. 

The  King.  Therefore,  some  other  remedy  must  lie 
found. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  the  words  of  thy  illustrious 
mouth  are  as  very  meat-balls  of  wisdom. 

The  Kino  (musing).  Now  let  me  consider.  Tiiou  sayest 
he  tloes  not  suffer  pain  — 

The  Servant.  Therefore  he  cannot  be  tortured. 

The  King.  And  he  will  not  die  — 

The  Servant.  Therefore  it  is  useless  to  kill  him. 

The  King.  Now  let  me  consider.  I  nui>t  lliiiik  of  some 
other  way. 

The  Servant.  Perhaps  a  small  crust  of  bread.  ()  king  — 

The  King.  Ha!  I  have  it.  I  have  it.  I  myself  will  order 
him  to  stoj). 

The  Servant  {horrified).  O  king! 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING  39 

The  King.  Send  the  beggar  here. 

The  Servant.  O  king! 

The  King.  Ha!  I  rather  fancy  the  fellow  will  stop  his 
noise  when  the  king  commands  him  to.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

The  Servant.  O  king,  thou  wilt  not  have  a  beggar 
brought  into  thy  royal  chamber! 

The  King  (pleased  with  his  idea).  Yea.  Go  outside  and 
tell  this  fellow  that  the  king  desires  his  presence. 

The  Servant.  O  great  and  illustrious  king,  thou  wilt 
surely  not  do  this  thing.  Thou  wilt  surely  not  soil  thy 
royal  eyes  by  looking  on  such  a  filthy  creature.  Thou  wilt 
surely  not  contaminate  thy  lips  by  speaking  to  a  common 
beggar  who  cries  aloud  in  the  streets  for  bread. 

The  King.  My  ears  have  been  soiled  too  much  already. 
Therefore  go  now  and  do  as  I  have  commanded  thee. 

The  Servant.  O  great  and  illustrious  king,  thou  wilt 
surely  not  — 

The  King  (roann^a^Hm).  I  said,  Go!  (The  Servant, 
abashed,  goes  out.)  Forsooth,  I  fancy  the  fellow  will  stop  his 
bawling  when  I  order  him  to.  Forsooth,  I  fancy  he  will  be 
pretty  well  frightened  when  he  hears  that  the  king  desires 
his  presence.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

The  Servant  (returning) .  O  king,  here  is  the  beggar. 
(A  shambling  creature  hung  in  filthy  rags  follows  The 
Servant  slowly  into  the  royal  chamber.) 

The  King.  Ha!  A  magnificent  sight,  to  be  sure.  Art 
thou  the  beggar  who  has  been  crying  aloud  in  the  streets 
for  bread? 

The  Beggar  (in  a  faint  voice,  after  a  slight  pause).  Art 
thou  the  king? 

The  King.  I  am  the  king. 

The  Servant  (aside  to  The  Beggar).  It  is  not  proper 
for  a  beggar  to  ask  a  question  of  a  king.  Speak  only  as  thou 
art  spoken  to. 


40  THE   BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING 

The  King  {to  The  Servant) .  Do  thou  likewise.  ( To  The 
Beggar)  I  have  ordered  thee  here  to  speak  to  thee  concern- 
ing a  very  grave  matter.  Thou  art  the  beggar,  I  under- 
stand, who  often  cries  aloud  in  the  streets  for  bread.  Now, 
the  complaint  of  thy  voice  annoys  me  greatly.  Therefore, 
do  not  beg  any  more. 

The  Beggar  (faintly).  I  —  I  do  not  understand. 

The  King.  I  said,  do  not  beg  any  more. 

The  Beggar.  I  —  I  do  not  understand. 

The  Servant  (aside  to  The  Beggar).  The  king  has  com- 
manded thee  not  to  beg  for  bread  any  more.  The  noise  of 
thy  voice  is  as  garbage  in  his  ears. 

The  King  (to  The  Servant).  Ha!  An  excellent  flower 
of  speech.  Pin  it  in  thy  buttonhole.  (To  The  Beggar) 
Thine  ears,  I  see,  are  in  need  of  a  bath  even  mure  than  thy 
body.  I  said.  Do  not  beg  any  more. 

The  Beggar.  I  — ^  I  do  not  understand. 

The  Kino  (making  a  trumpet  of  his  hands  and  shouting). 
DO  NOT  BEG  ANY  MORE. 

The  Bec;gar.  I  —  I  do  not  understand. 

The  Kin(j.  Heavens!  He  is  deafer  than  a  stone  wall. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  he  cannot  be  deaf,  for  he  under- 
stood me  quite  easily  when  I  spoke  to  him  in  the  street. 

The  King  (/oThe  Bkgcjar).  Art  thoudcaf.^  Canst  thou 
hear  what  I  am  saying  to  thee  now? 

The  Beg(7ar.  Alas!  I  can  hear  every  wonl  perfectly. 

The  Kinc;.  Fft!  The  inii)udeuce.  Thy  tongue  sludl  be 
cut  out  for  this. 

The  Servant.  O  king,  to  cut  out  his  tongue  is  useless, 
for  lie  will  grow  another. 

The  King.  No  matter.  It  shall  be  cut  out  anj^way.  (To 
The  Beggar)  I  have  ordered  thee  not  to  beg  any  more  in 
the  streets.  What  meanest  thou  by  saying  thou  dost  not 
understand? 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING  41 

The  Beggar.  The  words  of  thy  mouth  I  can  hear  per- 
fectly. But  their  noise  is  only  a  foolish  tinkling  in  my  ears. 

The  King.  Fft!  Only  a  —  !  A  lash  will  tinkle  thy  hide 
for  thee  if  thou  dost  not  cure  thy  tongue  of  impudence.  I, 
thy  king,  have  ordered  thee  not  to  beg  any  more  in  the 
streets  for  bread.  Signify,  therefore,  that  thou  wilt  obey 
the  orders  of  thy  king  by  quickly  touching  thy  forehead 
thrice  to  the  floor. 

The  Beggar.  That  is  impossible. 

The  Servant  (aside  to  The  Beggar).  Come.  It  is  not 
safe  to  tempt  the  patience  of  the  king  too  long.  His  patience 
is  truly  great,  but  he  loses  it  most  wondrous  quickly. 

The  King.  Come,  now :  I  have  ordered  thee  to  touch  thy 
forehead  to  the  floor. 

The  Servant  {nudging  him) .  And  quickly. 

The  Beggar.  Wherefore  should  I  touch  my  forehead  to 
the  floor? 

The  King.  In  order  to  seal  thy  promise  to  thy  king. 

The  Beggar.  But  I  have  made  no  promise.  Neither 
have  I  any  king. 

The  King.  Ho!  He  has  made  no  promise.  Neither  has 
he  any  king.  Ha,  ha,  ha.  I  have  commanded  thee  not  to 
beg  any  more,  for  the  sound  of  thy  voice  is  grievous  unto 
my  ears.  Touch  thy  forehead  now  to  the  floor,  as  I  have 
commanded  thee,  and  thou  shalt  go  from  this  palace  a  free 
man.  Refuse,  and  thou  wilt  be  sorry  before  an  hour  that 
thy  father  ever  came  within  twenty  paces  of  thy  mother. 

The  Beggar.  I  have  ever  lamented  that  he  did.  For  to 
be  born  into  this  world  a  beggar  is  a  more  unhappy  thing 
than  any  that  I  know  —  unless  it  is  to  be  born  a  king. 

The  King.  Fft!  Thy  tongue  of  a  truth  is  too  lively  for 
thy  health.  Come,  now,  touch  thy  forehead  thrice  to  the 
floor  and  promise  solemnly  that  thou  wilt  never  beg  in  the 
streets  again.  And  hurry! 


42     THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING 

The  Servant  (aside).  It  is  wise  to  do  as  thy  king  cora- 
mancls  thee.  His  patience  is  near  an  end. 

The  King.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  soil  the  floor  vdih  thy 
forehead.  I  will  graciously  forgive  thee  for  that. 

(The  Beggar  stands  mofionlcis.) 

The  Servant.  I  said,  it  is  not  wise  to  keep  the  king 
waiting. 

(TiiE  Beggar  docs  not  more.) 

The  King.  Well?  (A  pause.)  Well?  (In  a  rage)  WELL? 

The  Beggar.  O  king,  thou  hast  commanded  me  not  to 
beg  in  the  streets  for  bread,  for  the  noise  of  my  voice  offends 
thee.  Now  therefore  do  I  likewise  command  thee  to  remove 
thy  crown  from  thy  forehead  and  throw  it  from  yonder  win- 
dow into  the  street.  For  when  thou  hast  thrown  thy  cro^Ti 
into  the  street,  then  will  I  no  longer  be  obliged  to  beg. 

The  King.  Fft!  Thou  comraandcst  vie!  Thou,  a  beggar 
from  the  streets,  commandcst  vie,  a  king,  to  remove  my 
crown  from  my  forehead  and  throw  it  from  yonder  window 
into  the  street! 

The  Begg.\r.  That  is  what  I  said. 

The  King.  Why,  dost  thou  not  know  I  can  have  thee 
slain  for  such  words? 

The  Beggar.  No.  Thou  canst  not  have  me  slain.  The 
spears  of  thy  soldiers  are  as  straws  against  my  body. 

The  King.  Ha!  We  shall  see  if  tiicy  are.  We  shall  see! 

The  Servant.  O  king,  it  is  indeed  true.  It  is  even  as  he 
has  told  thee. 

The  Bp:ggar.  I  have  rerjuircd  thee  to  remove  thy  croi^-n 
from  thy  forehead.  If  so  be  thou  wilt  throw  it  from  yonder 
window  into  the  street,  my  voice  will  cease  to  annoy  thee 
any  more.  But  if  tliou  refuse,  then  thou  wilt  wish  thou 
hadst  never  had  any  crown  at  all.  For  thy  days  will  be 
filled  with  a  terrible  boding  and  thy  nights  will  be  full  of 
horrors,  even  as  a  ship  is  full  of  rats. 


THE  BEGGAR  AND  THE  KING  43 

The  King.  Why,  this  is  insolence.  This  is  treason ! 
The  Beggar.  Wilt  thou  throw  thy  crown  from  yonder 
window? 

The  King.  Why,  this  is  high  treason ! 
The  Beggar.  I  ask  thee,  wilt  thou  throw  thy  crown 
from  yonder  window? 

The  Servant  (aside  to  The  King).  Perhaps  it  were  wise 
to  humor  him,  O  king.  After  thou  hast  thrown  thy  crown 
away  I  can  go  outside  and  bring  it  to  thee  again. 

The  Beggar.  Well?  Well?  {He  points  to  the  vnndow.) 
Well? 

The  King.  No!  I  will  not  throw  my  crown  from  that 
window  —  no,  nor  from  any  other  window.  What !  Shall  I 
obey  the  orders  of  a  beggar?  Never! 

The  Beggar  (preparing  to  leave).  Truly,  that  is  spoken 
like  a  king.  Thou  art  a  king,  so  thou  wouldst  prefer  to  lose 
thy  head  than  that  silly  circle  of  gold  that  so  foolishly  sits 
upon  it.  But  it  is  well.  Thou  art  a  king.  Thou  couldst  not 
prefer  otherwise.  (He  walks  calmly  toward  the  door.) 

The  King  (to  The  Servant).  Stop  him!  Seize  him! 
Does  he  think  to  get  off  so  easily  with  his  impudence ! 

The  Beggar  (coolly).  One  of  thy  servants  cannot  stop 
me.  Neither  can  ten  thousand  of  them  do  me  any  harm.  I 
am  stronger  than  a  mountain.  I  am  stronger  than  the  sea ! 

The  King.  Ha !  We  will  see  about  that,  we  will  see  about 
that.  (To  The  Servant)  Hold  him,  I  say.  Call  the 
guards.   He  shall  be  put  in  chains. 

The  Beggar.  My  strength  is  greater  than  a  mountain 
and  my  words  are  more  fearful  than  a  hurricane.  This  serv- 
ant of  thine  cannot  even  touch  me.  With  one  breath  of  my 
mouth  I  can  blow  over  this  whole  palace. 

The  King.  Dost  thou  hear  the  impudence  he  is  offering 
me?  WTiy  dost  thou  not  seize  him?  What  is  the  matter 
with  thee?  Why  dost  thou  not  call  the  guards? 


41  THE  BEGG.\R  AND  THE  KING 

The  Beggar.  I  will  not  harm  thee  now.  I  will  onlj'  cry 
aloud  in  the  streets  for  bread  wherewith  to  fill  ray  belly. 
But  one  day  I  will  not  be  so  kind  to  thee.  On  that  day  my 
mouth  will  be  filled  with  a  rushing  wind  and  my  arms  will 
become  as  strong  as  steel  rods,  and  I  will  blow  over  this 
palace,  and  all  the  bones  in  thy  foolish  body  I  will  snap 
between  my  fingers.  I  will  beat  upon  a  large  drum  and 
thy  head  will  be  my  drumstick.  I  will  not  do  these  things 
now.  But  one  day  I  will  do  them.  Therefore,  when  my 
voice  sounds  again  in  thine  cars,  begging  for  bread, 
remember  what  I  have  told  thee.  Remember,  O  king,  and 
be  afraid! 

{He  walks  out.  The  Servant,  struck  dumb,  stares  after 
him.  The  King  sits  in  his  chair,  dazed.) 

TiikJ^I'SG  {suddenly  collecting  his  triU).  After  him!  After 
him!  lie  mu.st  not  be  allowed  to  escape!  After  him! 

The  Servant  {faltering).  O  king  —  I  cannot  seem  to 
move. 

The  King.  Quick,  then.  Call  the  guards.  He  must  be 
caught  and  put  in  chains.  Quick,  I  say.   Call  the  guards! 

The  Servant.  O  king —  I  cannot  .seem  to  call  them. 

The  King.  How!  Art  thou  dumb?  Ali! 

(Thk  Bkcoau's  roicc  is  heard  outside.) 

The  Beggar.  Bread.   Bread.  Give  me  some  bread. 

The  King.  Ah.  {He  iur?is  toward  the  window,  half- 
frightened,  and  then,  almost  instinctively,  rai.fcs  his  hands 
toward  his  crown,  and  seems  on  the  point  of  to.-<.s-ing  it  out  the 
window.  Bui  with  an  oath  he  replaces  it  and  presses  it  firmly 
on  his  head.)  How!  .Vm  I  afraiil  of  a  beggar! 

'VuEliF.ca.KH  {continuing  outside).  Bread.  Bread.  Give 
me  some  bread. 

The  Kino  {with  terrible  anger).  Close  that  window! 
(The  Servant  stands  stupent,  and  the  voice  of  The 
Beggar  gri)ws  louder  as  the  curtain  falls.) 


TIDES  ^ 

GEORGE  MIDDLETON 

CHARACTERS 

William  White,  a  famous  Internationalist 
Hilda,  his  wife 
Wallace,  their  son 

SCENE:  At  the  Whites';  spring,  1917.  A  simply  furnished 
study.  The  walls  are  lined  with  bookshelves,  indicating, 
by  their  improvised  quality,  that  they  have  been  increased 
as  occasion  demanded.  On  these  are  stacked,  in  addition 
to  the  books  themselves,  many  files  of  papers,  magazines, 
and  ^^  reports."  The  large  work-table,  upon  which  rests  a 
double  student  lamp  and  a  telephone,  is  conspicuous.  A 
leather  couch  with  pillows  is  opposite,  pointing  toward  a 
doorway  which  leads  into  the  living-room.  There  is  also 
a  doorway  in  back,  which  apparently  opens  on  the  hall- 
way beyond.  The  room  is  comfortable  in  spite  of  its  gen- 
eral disorder:  it  is  essentially  the  workshop  of  a  busy  man 
of  public  affairs.  The  strong  sunlight  of  a  spring  day 
comes  in  through  the  window,  flooding  the  table. 

William  White  is  standing  by  the  window,  smoking 
a  pipe.  He  is  about  fifty,  of  striking  appearance:  the 
visual  incarnation  of  the  popular  conception  of  a  leader 

^  Reprinted  by  permission  of  the  author  and  of  Messrs.  Henry  Holt 
and  Company,  the  publishers,  from  the  volume,  Masks  and  Other  One- 
Act  Plays  (1920). 


46  TIDES 

of  men.  There  is  authority  and  strength  in  the  lines  of  h  is 
face;  his  whole  personality  is  commanding;  his  voice  has 
all  the  modulations  of  a  well-trained  orator;  his  gestures 
are  sweejring  — for,  even  in  private  conversation^  he  is 
habitually  conscious  of  an  audience.  Othericise,  he  is 
simple  and  engaging,  icith  some  indication  of  his  humble 
origin. 

On  the  sofa  opposite,  with  a  letter  in  her  hand,  Hilda 
White,  his  icife,  is  seated.  She  is  somewhat  younger  in 
fact,  though  in  appearance  she  is  as  one  who  has  been 
worn  a  bit  by  the  struggle  of  many  years.  Her  manner 
contrasts  with  her  husband's:  her  inheritance  of  delicate 
refinement  is  ever  present  in  her  soft  voice  and  gentle  ges- 
ture. Yet  she,  too,  suggests  strength  —  the  sort  which  icill 
endure  all  for  a  fixed  intention. 

It  is  obvious  throughout  that  she  and  her  husband  have 
been  happy  comrades  in  their  life  together,  and  that  a  deep 
fundamental  bond  has  united  t!iem  in  spite  of  the  different 
social  spheres  from  ichich  each  has  sprung. 

"White  {seeing  she  has  paused).  Go  o:\,  dear;  go  on.  Let  \s 
hear  all  of  it. 

IIii.DA.  Oh,  what's  the  use, Will?  You  know  how  dilTer- 
ently  he  feels  about  the  war. 

White  (unth  quiet  sarcasm).  But  it 's  been  so  many  years 
sinee  your  respectable  brother  has  houoretl  me  even  with 
the  slightest  allusion  — 

Hilda.  H  you  eare  for  what  he  says — (continuing  to 
read  the  letter)  —  *'  Remember.  Hilda,  you  are  an  American. 
I  don't  suppose  your  husband  considers  that  an  honor;  but 
I  do." 

White  (interrupting).  And  what  kind  of  an  American 
has  he  been  in  times  of  peace?  lie's  wrung  forty  per  cent 
profit  out  of  his  factory  and  fought  every  etTort  of  the  work- 
ers to  organize.  Ah,  these  smug  hypocrites! 


I 


TIDES  47 

Hilda  (reading).  "His  violent  opposition  to  America 
going  in  has  been  disgrace  enough  — " 

White.  But  his  war  profits  were  all  right.  Oh,  yes. 

Hilda.  Let  me  finish,  dear,  since  you  want  it.  (Reading) 
"  — been  disgrace  enough.  But  now  that  we're  in,  I'm 
writing  in  the  faint  hope,  if  you  are  not  too  much  under  his 
influence,  that  you  will  persuade  him  to  keep  his  mouth 
shut.  This  country  will  tolerate  no  difference  of  opinion 
now.  You  radicals  had  better  get  on  board  the  band  wagon. 
It 's  prison  or  acceptance."  (She  stops  reading.)  He 's  right, 
dear.  There  will  be  nothing  more  intolerant  than  a  so-called 
democracy  at  war. 

White.  By  God!  It 's  superb!  Silence  for  twenty  years 
and  now  he  writes  his  poor  misguided  sister  for  fear  she  will 
be  further  disgraced  by  her  radical  husband. 

Hilda.  We  must  n't  descend  to  his  bitterness. 

White.  No  :  I  suppose  I  should  resuscitate  the  forgotten 
doctrine  of  forgiving  my  enemies. 

Hilda.  He's  not  your  enemy;  he  merely  looks  at  it  all 
differently. 

White.  I  was  thinking  of  his  calm  contempt  for  me  these 
twenty  years  —  ever  since  you  married  me  —  "out  of  your 
class,"  as  he  called  it. 

Hilda.  Oh,  hush.  Will.  I  've  been  so  happy  with  you  I 
can  bear  him  no  ill  will.  Besides,  does  n't  his  attitude  seem 
natural?  You  must  n't  forget  that  no  man  in  this  coimtry 
has  fought  his  class  more  than  you.  That  hurts  —  espe- 
cially coming  from  an  acquired  relative. 

White.  Yes;  that  aggravates  the  offense.  And  I'll  tell 
you  something  you  may  not  know.  (Bitterly)  Whenever 
I've  spoken  against  privilege  and  wealth  it's  been  his 
pudgy,  comfortable  face  I  've  shaken  my  fist  at.  He's  been 
so  damned  comfortable  all  his  life. 

Hilda.  (She  looks  at  him  in  surprise.)   Why,  Will,  you 


48  TWYS 

surely  don't  envy  him  his  comfort,  do  you?  I  can't  make 
you  out.  What 's  come  over  you  these  last  weeLs?  You've 
always  hecn  above  such  personal  bitterness;  even  when  you 
were  most  condemned  and  ridiculed.  If  it  were  anybody 
but  you  I'd  think  you  had  done  something  you  were 
ashamed  of. 

White.  AMiat  do  you  mean? 

'Hilda.  Have  n't  you  sometimes  noticed  that  is  what 
i)itterness  to  another  means:  a  failure  within  oneself?  {He 
goes  over  to  chair  and  sits  icithout  answering.)  I  can  tliink  of 
you  beaten  by  outside  things  —  that  sort  of  failure  we  all 
meet;  but  somehow  I  can  never  thviik  of  you  failing  your- 
self. You've  been  so  brave  and  self-reliant:  you  've  fought 
so  hard  for  the  truth. 

White  {tapping  letter).  But  he  thinks  he  knows  the  truth, 
too. 

IIiLD.\..  He's  also  an  intense  nature. 

White  {thoughlfulhf  after  a  pau.tc).  Yet  there  is  some 
truth  in  what  he  says. 

Hilda  {.smiling).  Rut  you  tliihrt  like  it  —  coming  from 
him? 

White.  It  will  be  different  with  you  and  me  now  that 
America's  gone  in. 

Hilda.  Yes.  It  will  be  harder  for  us  here;  for  hate  is  al- 
ways farthest  from  the  trenches.  But  you  and  I  are  not  the 
sort  who  would  compromise  to  escai)e  the  persecution  which 
is  the  resource  of  the  non-combatant. 

{The  phone  ritigs:  he  looks  al  his  watch.) 

White.  That 's  for  me. 

Hilda.  I^t  me.  {She  goes.)  It  may  Ix-  Wallace.  (.4/ 
phone)  Yes:  this  is  IIG  Chelsea.  Long  Distance?  {He 
.starts  as  she  says  to  him)  It  must  be  our  boy.  (.-1/  phone) 
Who?  Oh  — 3/r.  William  White?  Yes:  he '11  be  here.  {She 
hangs  tip  receiver.)  She'll  ring  when  she  gets  the  connection 
through. 


TIDES  49 

White  (turning  away).  It  takes  so  long  these  days. 

Hilda.  Furiny  he  did  n't  ask  for  me. 

White.  What  made  you  think  it  was  Wallace? 

Hilda.  I  took  it  for  granted.  He  must  be  having  a  hard 
time  at  college  with  all  the  boys  full  of  war  fever. 

White.  And  a  father  with  my  record. 

Hilda.  He  should  be  proud  of  the  example.  He  has  more 
than  other  boys  to  cling  to  these  days  when  everybody  is 
losing  his  head  as  the  band  plays  and  the  flag  is  waved.  He 
won't  be  carried  away  by  it.  He  '11  remember  all  we  taught 
him.  Ah,  Will,  when  I  think  we  now  have  conscription  — 
as  they  have  in  Germany  —  I  thank  God  every  night  our 
boy  is  too  young  for  the  draft. 

White.    But  when  his  time  comes  what  will  he  do? 

Hilda  (calmly).  He  will  do  it  with  courage. 

White  (referring  to  her  brother's  letter).  Either  prison  or 
acceptance ! 

Hilda.  I  would  rather  have  my  son  in  prison  than  have 
him  do  what  he  felt  was  wrong.  Would  n't  you? 

White  (evasively).  We  won't  have  to  face  that  problem 
for  two  years. 

Hilda.  And  when  it  comes  —  if  he  falters  —  I  '11  give 
him  these  notes  of  that  wonderful  speech  you  made  at  the 
International  Conference  in  1910.  (Picking  it  up)  I  was 
looking  through  it  only  this  morning. 

White  (troubled).  Oh,  that  speech. 

Hilda  (glancing  through  it  with  enthusiasm).  "All  wars 
are  imperialistic  in  origin.  Do  away  with  overseas  invest- 
ments, trade  routes,  private  control  of  ammunition  facto- 
ries, secret  diplomacy — " 

White.  Don't  you  see  that 's  all  dead  wood? 

Hilda  (not  heeding  him).  This  part  gave  me  new  strength 
when  I  thought  of  Wallace.  (Reading  ivith  eloquence)  "War 
will  stop  when  young  men  put  Internationalism  above 


50  TIDES 

Nationality,  the  law  of  God  above  the  dictates  of  statesmen, 
the  law  of  love  above  the  law  of  hate,  the  law  of  self-sacri- 
fice above  the  law  of  profit.  There  must  lie  no  boundaries  in 
man's  thought.  Let  the  young  men  of  the  world  once  throw 
down  their  arms,  let  them  once  refuse  to  point  their  guns  at 
human  hearts,  and  all  the  boundaries  of  the  world  will  melt 
away  and  peace  will  find  a  resting-place  in  the  hearts  of 
men! 

WuiTE  (taking  it  from  her).  And  I  made  you  believe  it! 
What  silly  prophets  we  radicals  were.    {He  tears  ii  up.) 
Mere  scraps  of  paper,  dear;  scraps  of  paper,  now. 
Hilda.  But  it  was  the  truth;  it  still  is  the  truth. 
White.  Hilda,  there  's  something  I  want  to  talk  over 
very,  very  seriously  with  you.  I've  l>een  putting  it  off. 

Hilda.  Yes,  dear.''    (The  outer  door  is  heard  to  bang.) 
Listen:  was  n't  that  the  front  door.' 
White.  Perhaps  it's  the  maid? 

Hilda  (a  bit  nervoiishj).  No:  she  's  upstairs.  No  one  rang. 
Please  see. 

White  (smiling).  Now  don't  worry !  It  can't  possibly  be 
the  Secret  Service. 

Hilda.  One  never  knows  in  war  times  what  to  expect.  I 
sometimes  feel  I  am  in  a  foreign  country. 

(White  goes  slowly  to  the  door  in  back  and  opens  it. 
Wall.\ce,  their  son,  with  valise  in  hand,  is  standing 
there,  as  if  he  had  hesitated  to  enter. 
He  is  a  fine  clean-cut  young  fellow,  with  his  father's  phys- 
ical endowment  and  his  mother's  spiritual  intensity. 
The  essential  note  he  strikes  is  that  of  honesty.    It  is 
apparent  he  is  under  the  pressure  of  a  momentous 
decision  which  has  brought  him  unexpectedly  home 
from  college.) 
White.  Wallace! 
Wallace  (shaking  hands).   Hello,  Dad! 


TIDES  51 

Hilda.  Wallace!  My  boy! 

(Wallace  drops  valise  and  goes  to  his  mother's  arms.) 

Wallace  (^vith  deep  feeling) .   Mother! 

White  (after  a  pause).  Well,  boy;  this  is  unexpected. 
We  were  just  talking  of  you. 

Wallace.  Were  you? 

Hilda.  I  'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  so  glad. 

Wallace.  Yes  —  yes  —  but  — 

White.  There's  nothing  the  matter? 

Hilda.  You've  had  trouble  at  college? 

Wallace.  Not  exactly.  But  I  could  n't  stand  it  there. 
I ' ve  left  —  for  good. 

White.  I  was  sure  that  would  happen. 

Hilda.  Tell  us.  You  know  we'll  understand. 

Wallace.  Dad,  if  you  don't  mind,  I  'd  like  to  talk  it  over 
with  mother  first. 

White.  Of  course,  old  fellow,  that's  right.  She'll  stand 
by  you  just  as  she 's  always  stood  by  me  —  all  these  years. 
(He  kisses  her.)  I  —  I  — 

(He  smooths  her  hair  gently y  looking  into  her  eyes  as  she 
smiles  up  at  him.) 

We  must  n't  let  this  war  hurt  all  we've  had  together  — 
you  and  I  — 

Hilda  (smiling  and  turning  towards  her  son).  And 
Wallace. 

White.  And  Wallace.  Yes.  (Wallace  looks  away  guilt- 
ily.)  Let  me  know  when  the  phone  comes. 

(He  goes  out  hastily.  She  closes  the  door  after  him  and 
then  comes  to  Wallace,  who  has  sat  down,  indicating 
he  is  troubled.) 

Hilda.  They  made  it  hard  for  you  at  college? 

Wallace.  I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you. 

Hilda.  I  understand.  The  flag  waving,  the  patriotic 
speeches,  the  billboards  advertising  the  glory  of  war,  the 


52  TIDES 

call  of  adventure  offered  to  youth,  the  pressure  of  your 
friends  —  all  made  it  hard  for  you  to  be  called  a  slacker. 

Wallace.  No,  mother.  I  was  n't  afraid  of  what  they 
could  call  me.  That  was  easy. 

Hilda  (proudly).  You  are  your  father's  son! 

\Yall.\ce.  Mother,  I  can't  stand  the  thought  of  killing, 
you  know  that.  And  I  could  n't  forget  all  you've  told  me. 
That 's  why  I've  had  to  think  this  out  all  these  months 
alone;  why  I've  hesitated  longer  than  most  fellows.  The 
only  thing  I  was  really  afraid  of  was  being  WTong.  But  now 
I  know  I'm  right  and  I'm  going  clean  through  to  the  limit. 

Hilda.  As  your  father  said,  I  '11  stand  l)y  you  —  whatever 
it  is  —  if  only  you  feel  it 's  right. 

Wallace.  Will  you?  Will  you,  mother?  No  matter 
what  happens?  (She  nods.)  I  knew  you  would.  {Takinj 
her  hand)   Then,  mother,  listen.   I've  volunteered. 

Hilda  (shocked).  Volunteered! 

W'ALLACE.  Yes.  I  leave  for  training-camp  to-night. 

Hilda.  To-night? 

Wallace.  Yes,  mother.  Once  I  made  up  my  mind,  I 
could  n't  wait  to  be  drafted.  I  wanted  to  offer  myself.  I 
did  n't  want  to  be  made  to  go. 

Hilda  (hardly  grasping  il).  But  you  are  too  young. 

Wallace.  I  lied  about  my  age.  You  and  father  can  stop 
me  if  you  tell  the  truth.  That's  why  I've  conic  back.  I 
want  you  to  promi.se  you  won't  tell. 

Hilda.   Yoh  ask  me  to  aid  you  in  what  I  don't  believe? 

Wallace.  But  you  said  you'd  stick  by  nie  if  /  thought 
it  was  right. 

Hilda.  But  — 

Wallace  (with  fervor) .  .Viid  I  tell  you,  mother,  I  do  feel 
it  was  right  for  America  to  go  in.  I  see  now  we  ought  to 
have  declared  war  when  they  crushed  Belgium.  Yes;  we 
ought  to  have  gone  in  when  the  Lusitania  was  sunk.   But 


~*fl)S8pi8~" 


TIDES  53 

we've  been  patient.  The  President  tried  to  keep  us  out  of 
it  until  we  had  to  go  in  to  save  our  self-respect.  We  had  to 
go  in  to  show  we  were  men  of  honor,  not  pussy-cats.  We 
had  to  go  in  to  show  the  world  the  Stars  and  Stripes  was  n't 
a  dish-rag  on  which  the  Germans  could  dry  their  bloody 
hands ! 

Hilda  {gazing  at  him  incredulously).  You  hate  them  as 
much  as  that? 

Wallace.  Hate?  No,  mother,  no.  (As  if  questioning 
himself)  I  really  have  n't  any  hate  for  the  German  people. 
People  are  just  people  everywhere,  I  suppose,  and  they're 
tricked  and  fooled  by  their  rotten  government,  as  the  Presi- 
dent says. 

Hilda.  Then  why  fight  them? 

Wallace.  Because  they're  standing  back  of  their  gov- 
ernment, doing  what  it  says.  And  they  've  got  to  be  licked 
to  show  them  what  kind  of  a  government  they  have. 

Hilda.  At  least  you  have  no  hate  in  your  heart  —  that 's 
something. 

Wallace.  Oh,  yes,  I  have,  mother.  But  it  is  n't  for  the 
poor  devils  I've  got  to  shoot.  It's  for  the  stay-at-home 
fellow  here  in  America  who  sits  in  a  comfortable  armchair, 
who  applauds  patriotic  sentiment,  cheers  the  flag,  and  does 
nothing  for  his  country  but  hate  and  hate  —  while  we  fight 
for  him.  That 's  the  fellow  I  '11  hate  all  right  when  I  sit  in 
the  trenches.  And  that's  why  I  couldn't  look  myself  in  the 
face  if  I  stayed  out  a  day  longer;  why  I  've  got  to  go  in;  why 
I  'm  going  to  die  if  I  must,  because  everybody  ought  to  be 
willing  to  die  for  what  he  believes. 

Hilda.  You  are  my  son,  too!  For  I  would  willingly  have 
died  if  it  could  have  kept  us  out  of  this  war. 

Wallace.  Yes.  I  am  your  son,  too.  And  that 's  why  you 
would  n't  respect  me  if  I  did  n't  go  through. 

Hilda.  No.   I  would  n't  have  respected  you.   But  — 


54  TIDES 

but  —  (She  breaks  a  hit,  then  controls  herself.)  You  are 
quite  sure  you're  doing  what 's  right? 

Wallace  (tenderly).  Would  I  have  been  willing  to  hurt 
you  like  this? 

IIiLUA  [holding  him  close  to  her).  My  i)oy ;  my  boy  I 

Wallace.  It'll  be  all  right,  mother. 

Hilda.  Ah,  yes.  It  will  be  all  right.  Nothing  matters  in 
time:  it's  only  the  moments  that  hurt. 

Wall-vce  (after  a  pause).  Then  you  won't  tell  my  real 
age,  or  interfere? 

IIild.\.  I  respect  your  right  to  decide  your  own  life. 

Wallace  (joyed).  ^lother! 

Hilda,  I  respect  your  dedication;  your  willingness  to 
sacrifice  for  your  beliefs.  Why,  Wallace,  it  would  be  a 
crime  for  me  to  stand  in  your  way  —  even  with  my  mother's 
love.  (He  kisses  her.)  Do  it  all  as  cleanly  as  you  can.  1*11 
hope  and  pray  that  you  '11  come  back  t  o  me.  (Half  breaking 
doini  and  taking  him  in  her  arms).  Oh,  my  boy;  my  boy. 
Ix?t  mc  hold  you.  You'll  never  know  how  hard  it  is  for  a 
mother. 

Wallace  (gently).   But  other  mothers  send  their  boys. 

Hilda.  Most  of  them  believe  in  what  their  sonsare fight- 
ing for.  Mothers  have  got  to  believe  in  it ;  or  else  how  could 
they  stand  the  thought  of  bayonets  stuck  into  the  bodies 
they  brought  forth  in  their  own  blooil?  ( There  is  a  pausetill 
she  controls  herself.)  I  '11  help  you  get  your  things  together. 

Wali^\ce.  And  father? 

Hilda.  He  will  be  angry. 

Wallace.  But  you  will  make  him  understand? 

Hilda.  I'll  try.  Yet  you  must  be  patient  witii  him  if  he 
does  n't  understand.  Don't  ever  forget  his  long  fight  against 
all  kinds  of  Prussianism  when  you  hear  him  reviled  by  those 
who  have  always  hated  his  radicalism  and  who,  now,  under 
the  guise  of  patriotism,  are  trying  to  render  him  useless  for 


TIDES  55 

further  attacks  on  them  after  the  war.  He's  been  perse- 
cuted so  by  them  —  even  back  in  the  days  when  our  press 
was  praising  Germany  and  our  distinguished  citizens  were 
dining  at  the  Emperor's  table.  Don't  forget  all  this,  my 
boy.  These  days  are  hard  for  him  —  and  me  —  harder 
perhaps  than  for  you  who  go  out  to  die  in  glory  and  praise. 
There  are  no  flags  for  us,  no  music  that  stirs,  no  applause; 
but  we  too  suflFer  in  silence  for  what  we  believe.  And  it  is 
only  the  strongest  who  can  survive.  —  Now  call  your  father. 

Wax,L-\ce  {goes  to  door).  Dad!  (He  leaves  door  open 
and  turns  to  his  mother.)  I  '11  be  getting  my  things  together. 
(There  is  a  pause.  White  enters.)  Dad,  mother  has  some- 
thing to  ask  you.  {He  loohs  from  father  to  mother.)  Thanks, 
Httle  mother. 

(He  kisses  her  and  goes  out,  taking  the  valise.  His  father 
and  mother  stand  facing  each  other.) 

Hilda.  Wallace  has  volunteered.  {He  looks  at  her 
keenly.)  He  has  lied  about  his  age.  He  wants  us  to  let  him 

go- 
White.  Volunteered? 

Hilda.  Yes;  he  leaves  to-night. 

White  {after  a  pause).  And  what  have  you  told  him? 

Hilda.  That  he  must  go. 

W^hite.  You  can  say  that? 

Hilda.  It  is  the  way  he  sees  it. 

White  {going  to  her  sympathetically) .  Hilda. 

Hilda  {looking  up  at  him  tenderly).  O  Will,  do  you 
remember  when  he  was  born?  {He  soothes  her.)  And  all 
we  nursed  him  through  afterwards;  and  all  we  taught  him; 
all  we  tried  to  show  him  about  war.  {With  a  shrug  of  her 
shoulders)  None  of  it  has  mattered. 

White.  War  is  stronger  than  all  that. 

Hilda.  So  we  must  n't  blame  him.  You  won't  blame 
him? 


56  TIDES 

White.  He  fears  I  will? 

Hilda.  He  has  always  feared  you  a  little,  though  he 
loves  you  deeply.  You  must  n't  oppose  him,  dear.  You 
won't? 

White  {wearily).  Is  there  any  use  opposing  anybody  or 
anything  these  days? 

Hilda.  We  must  wait  till  the  storm  passes. 

White.  That 's  never  been  my  way. 

Hilda.  No.  You've  fought  all  your  life.  But  now  we 
must  sit  silent  together  and  wait;  wait  for  our  boy  to  come 
back.  Will,  think  of  it;  we  are  going  to  have  a  boy  "over 
there,"  too. 

White.  Hilda,  has  n't  it  ever  struck  you  that  we  may 
have  been  all  ^vTong?  (She  looks  at  him,  as  she  holds  his 
hand.)  What  could  these  frail  hands  do?  How  could  we 
poor  little  King  Canutes  halt  this  tide  that  has  swept  over 
the  world?  Is  n't  it  better,  after  all,  that  men  should  fight 
themselves  out;  bring  such  desolation  upon  themselves  that 
they  will  be  forced  to  see  the  futility  of  war?  ^lay  it  not 
become  so  terrible  that  men  —  the  workers,  I  mean  —  will 
throw  down  their  worn-out  weapons  of  their  own  accord? 
Won't  permanent  peace  come  through  bitter  experience 
rather  than  talk  —  talk  —  talk? 

Hilda  (touching  the  torn  pages  of  his  speech  and  smiling). 
Here  is  your  answer  to  your  o^nti  question. 

White.  Oh,  that  was  all  theory.  We're  in  now.  You 
say  yourself  we  can't  oppose  it.  Is  n't  it  better  if  we  try  to 
direct  the  current  to  oiir  own  ends  rather  than  sink  by 
trying  to  swim  against  it? 

Hilda.  Oh,  yes;  it  would  be  easier  for  one  who  could 
com[)r()inise. 

White.  But  have  n't  we  radicals  been  too  intolerant 
of  cotni)romise? 

Hilda.  That  has  been  your  strength.    And  it  is  your 


TIDES  57 

strength  I  'm  relying  on  now  that  Wallace  —  Shall  I  call 
him? 

White  (significantly).  No;  wait. 

Hilda  (apprehensive  at  his  turn).  Oh,  yes.  Before  he 
came  you  said  there  was  something  —  (The  phone  rings. 
They  both  look  at  it.)  That 's  for  you. 

White  (not  moving).  Yes. 

Hilda  (hardly  believing  his  attitude).  Is  —  is  it  private? 

White.  No.  Perhaps  it  will  be  easier  this  way.  (He 
hesitates,  then  goes  to  phone  as  she  stands  expectant.)  Yes, 
Yes.  Long  Distance?  Washington?  (Her  lips  repeat  the 
word.)  Yes.  This  is  William  White.  Hello.  Yes.  Is  this 
the  Secretary  speaking?  Oh,  I  appreciate  the  honor  of 
having  you  confirm  it  personally.  Senator  Bough  is  chair- 
man? At  his  request?  Ah,  yes;  war  makes  strange  bed- 
fellows. Yes.  The  passport  and  credentials?  Oh,  I'll  be 
ready.  Yes.   Good-bye. 

(He  hangs  up  the  receiver  and  looks  at  her.) 

Hilda.  You,  too! 

White.  I've  been  trying  to  tell  you  these  last  weeks; 
but  I  could  n't  somehow. 

Hilda.  You  were  ashamed? 

White.  No,  dear;  only  I  knew  it  would  hurt  you. 

Hilda.  I  'm  not  thinking  of  myself  but  of  you.  You  are 
going  to  be  part  of  this  war? 

White.  I  'm  going  to  do  what  I  can  to  help  finish  it. 

Hilda.  By  compromising  with  the  beliefs  of  a  lifetime? 

White.  No,  dear;  not  that.  I've  accepted  the  appoint- 
ment on  this  commission  because  I  'm  going  to  accept  facts. 

Hilda.  Have  the  facts  of  war  changed,  or  is  it  you? 

White.  Neither  has  changed;  but  I'm  going  to  act  dif- 
ferently. I'm  going  to  be  part  of  it.  Yes.  I'm  going  to 
help  direct  the  current. 

Hilda.  I  can't  beUeve  what  I  am  hearing.    Is  it  you. 


58  TIDES 

"William  \Miitc,  spoaking?  You  who,  for  twenty  years, 
have  stood  against  all  war! 

White.  Yes. 

Hilda.  And  now,  wlicn  the  test  comes,  you  are  going  to 
lend  yourself  to  it!  You  of  all  men! 

White.  Hilda,  dear;  I  did  n't  expect  you  to  accept  it 
easily;  but  I  think  I  can  make  you  sec  if  you  will  lot  me. 

JliLD A  {poignantbj).  If  I  will /W  you !  Why,  Will,  I  must 
understand;  I  must. 

White.  Perhaps  it  will  be  difficult  at  first  —  with  your 
standards. 

Hilda.  But  my  standards  were  yours,  Will.  You  gave 
them  to  me.  You  taught  me.  You  took  a  young  girl  who 
loved  you.  You  showed  her  the  truth,  and  she  followcil 
you  and  has  followed  you  gladly  through  liard  years  of 
struggle  and  poverty  because  of  those  ideals.  And  now  you 
talk  of  my  standards!  Will,  don't  you  see,  I  nui.ft  under- 
stand? 

White.  Dear,  standards  are  relative  things;  they  differ 
with  circumstance. 

Hilda.  Have  your  ideals  only  been  old  clothes  you 
change  to  suit  the  weather? 

White.  It's  the  end  we  must  keep  in  mind.  /  have  n't 
changed  or  compromised  one  bit  in  that.  I'm  working  in 
changed  conditions,  that's  all;  working  with  all  my  heart 
to  do  away  with  all  war. 

Hilda.  By  fighting  one? 

White  {irifh  eloquence).  Yes.  Because  it  is  nece.s.sary. 
I've  come  to  see  we  can't  argue  war  out  of  the  world  with 
words.  We've  got  to  beat  it  out  of  the  worM.  It  can't  be 
done  with  (Mir  hands  lifted  up  in  prayer;  it  can  only  be  done 
with  iron  hands  crushing  it  <U)wn.  War  is  the  mood  of  the 
world.  Well,  I'm  going  to  fight  in  my  fashion.  And  when 
it  is  over,  I'm  going  to  k«H'p  on  fighting;  for  the  next  war 


TIDES  59 

will  be  greater  than  this.  It  will  be  economic  revolution. 
It  will  be  the  war  of  capital  and  labor.  And  I  mean  to  be 
ready. 

Hilda  {listening  incredulously).  And  to  get  ready  you 
are  willing  to  link  arms  now  with  Senator  Bough  —  a  man 
you  once  called  the  lackey  of  Wall  Street  —  a  man  who 
has  always  opposed  every  democratic  principle. 

White.  Yes.  Don't  you  see  the  Government  is  begin- 
ning to  realize  it  can't  do  without  us?  Don't  you  see  my 
appointment  is  an  acknowledgment  of  the  rising  tide  of 
radicalism  in  the  world?  Don't  you  see,  with  the  prestige 
that  will  come  to  me  from  this  appointment,  I  will  have 
greater  power  after  the  war;  power  to  bring  about  the  reaU- 
zation  of  all  our  dreams;  power  to  demand  —  even  at  the 
Peace  table  itself,  perhaps  —  that  all  wars  must  end? 

Hilda.  Do  you  actually  beheve  you  will  have  any  power 
with  your  own  people  when  you  have  compromised  them 
for  a  temporary  expediency? 

White  {with  a  gesture).  The  leader  must  be  wiser  than 
the  people  who  follow. 

Hilda.  So,  contempt  for  your  people  is  the  first  thing 
your  new  power  has  brought  you!  {He  makes  a  gesture  of 
denial.)  You  feel  you  are  above  them  —  not  of  them.  Do 
you  believe  for  a  moment  that  Senator  Bough  has  any- 
thing but  contempt  for  you,  too? 

White  {confidently) .  He  needs  me. 

Hilda.  Needs  you?  Don't  you  understand  why  he  had 
you  appointed  on  that  committee?  He  wanted  to  get  you 
out  of  the  way. 

White.  Is  n't  that  an  acknowledgment  of  my  power? 

Hilda.  Yes.  You're  a  great  asset  now.  You're  a  "re- 
formed" radical.  Why,  WiU,  he  '11  use  you  in  the  capitals  of 
Europe  to  advertise  his  liberalism;  just  as  the  prohibition- 
ist exhibits  a  reformed  drunkard. 


GO  TIDES 

White.  And  I  tell  you,  Hilda,  after  the  war  I  shall  be 
stronger  than  he  is,  stronger  than  any  of  them. 

IIiLD.\.  No  man  is  strong  unless  he  does  what  he  feels  is 
right.  No,  no.  Will;  you've  convicted  yourself  with  your 
own  eloquence.  You've  wanted  to  do  this  for  some  reason. 
But  it  is  n't  the  one  you've  told  me.  No;  no. 

White  (angrily).  You  doubt  my  sincerity? 

Hilda.  No;  only  the  way  you  have  read  yourself. 

White.  Well,  if  you  think  I  've  tried  to  make  it  easy  for 
myself  you  are  mistaken.  Is  it  easy  to  pull  out  of  the  rut 
and  habit  of  years?  Easy  to  know  my  friends  will  jeer  and 
say  I  've  sold  out?  Easy  to  have  you  misunderstand?  (Goes 
to  her.)  Hilda,  I'm  doing  this  for  their  good.  I'm  doing  it 

—  just  as  Wallace  is  —  because  I  feel  it's  right. 

Hilda.  No;  you  should  n't  say  that.  You  are  not  doing 
this  for  the  same  reason  Wallace  is.  He  believes  in  this  war. 
lie  has  accepted  it  all  simply  without  a  question.  If  you 
had  seen  the  look  in  his  eyes,  you  would  have  kno^^^l  he  was 
a  dedicated  spirit;  there  was  no  shadow,  no  doubt;  it  was 
pure  flame.  But  you!  You  believe  difTorcntly!  You  can't 
hush  the  mind  that  for  twenty  years  has  thought  no  war 
ever  could  henceforth  be  justified.  You  can't  give  yourself 
to  this  war  without  tricking  yourself  with  phrases.  You 
sec  power  in  it  and  profit  for  yourself.  (He  prolests.)  That 's 
your  o\NTi  confession.  You  are  only  doing  what  is  expedient 

—  not  what  is  right.  Oh,  Will,  don't  compare  your  motives 
with  those  of  our  .son.  I  sent  him  forth,  without  a  word  of 
protest,  because  he  wishes  to  die  for  his  own  ideals:  you  are 
killing  your  own  ideals  for  the  ideals  of  others!  (She  turns 
away.)  Oh,  Will,  that's  what  hurts.  If  you  were  only  like 
him,  I  —  I  could  stand  it. 

White  (quietly,  after  a  pause).  I  can't  be  angry  at  you  — 
even  when  you  say  such  things.  You've  been  too  much  a 
part  of  my  life,  ami  work,  and  I  love  you,  Hilda.   You  know 


TIDES  61 

that,  don't  you,  dear?  (He  sits  beside  her  and  takes  her  hand.) 
I  knew  it  would  be  diflScult  to  make  you  understand.  Only 
once  have  I  lacked  courage,  and  that  was  when  I  felt  myself 
being  drawn  into  this  and  they  offered  me  the  appoint- 
ment. For  then  I  saw  I  must  tell  you.  You  know  I  never 
have  wanted  to  cause  you  pain.  But  when  you  asked  me  to 
let  Wallace  go,  I  thought  you  would  understand  my  going, 
too.  —  Oh,  perhaps  our  motives  are  different;  he  is  young; 
war  has  caught  his  imagination;  but,  I,  too,  see  a  duty,  a 
way  to  accomplish  my  ideals. 

Hilda.  Let 's  leave  ideals  out  of  this  now.  It 's  like  bit- 
ter enemies  praying  to  the  same  God  as  they  kill  each 
other. 

White.  Yes.  War  is  full  of  ironies.  I  see  that :  Wallace 
can't.  It's  so  full  of  mixed  motives,  good  and  bad.  Yes. 
I  '11  grant  all  that.  Only,  America  has  gone  in.  The  whole 
tide  was  against  us,  dear.  It  is  sweeping  over  the  world :  a 
brown  tide  of  khaki  sweeping  everything  before  it.  All  my 
life  I  've  fought  against  the  current.  (Wearily)  And  now 
that  I've  gone  in,  too,  my  arms  seem  less  tired.  Yes;  and 
except  for  the  pain  I  've  caused  you,  I  've  never  in  all  my 
life  felt  so  —  so  happy. 

(Then  she  understands.    She  slowly  turns  to  him,  with 
tenderness  in  her  eyes.) 

Hilda.  Oh,  now.  Will,  I  do  understand.  Now  I  see  the 
real  reason  for  what  you've  done. 

White  (defensively).  I've  given  the  real  reason. 

Hilda  (her  heart  going  out  to  him).  You  poor  tired  man. 
My  dear  one.  Forgive  me  if  I  made  it  difiBcult  for  you,  if  I 
said  cruel  words.  I  ought  to  have  guessed;  ought  to  have 
seen  what  life  has  done  to  you.  (He  looks  wp,  not  under- 
standing her  words).  Those  hands  of  yours  first  dug  a  living 
out  of  the  ground.  Then  they  built  houses  and  grew  strong 
because  you  were  a  workman  —  a  man  of  the  people.  You 


62  TIDES 

saw  injustice,  and  all  your  life  30U  fought  against  those  who 
had  the  power  to  inflict  it:  the  press;  the  comfortable  re- 
spectables, like  my  brother;  and  even  those  of  your  own 
group  who  opposed  you  —  you  fought  them  all.  And  they 
look  at  you  as  an  outsider,  an  alien  in  your  own  country. 
O  Will,  I  know  how  hard  it  has  been  for  you  to  be  always 
on  the  defensive,  against  the  majority.  It  is  hard  to  live 
alone,  away  from  the  herd.  It  docs  tire  onetothe  bone  and 
make  one  envious  of  the  comfort  and  security  they  find  by 
being  together. 

White.  Yes —  but — ■ 

Hilda.  Now  the  war  comes  and  with  it  a  chance  to  get 
back;  to  be  part  of  the  majority;  to  be  welcomed  with  open 
arms  by  those  who  have  fought  you;  to  go  back  v.  ith  honor 
and  praise.  And,  yes,  to  have  the  warmth  and  comfort  of 
the  crowd.  That's  the  real  reason  j'ou 're  going  in.  You're 
tired  and  worn  out  with  tiie  fight.  I  know.  I  understand 
now. 

White  {earnestly).  If  I  thought  it  Wiis  that,  I'd  kill 
myself. 

Hilda,  There's  been  enough  killing  already.  I  have  to 
understand  it  somehow  to  accept  it  at  all. 

(lie  stares  at  her,  icondering  at  her  xcords.  She  smiles. 
He  goes  to  a  ehair  and  sits  down,  gazing  before  him. 
The  music  of  Over  There  w  noic  heard  outside  in 
the  street,  approaching  nearer  and  nearer.  It  is  a  mili- 
tary band.  Wallace  e.rcitedly  rushes  in  dressed  in 
khaki.) 

Wallace.  Mother,  moliicr.  The  boys  are  coming  down 
the  street.   (Sees  father.)   Dad!  Mother  has  lt>ld  you? 

Hilda  (calmly).  Yes;  I've  told  him. 

Wallace.  And  you're  going  to  let  me  go,  Dad? 

Hilda.  Yes. 

Wallace.   Oh,    thanks,    Dud     (grasping     his    hand). 


TIDES  63 

I  knew  mother  would  make  you  see.  (Music  nearer.) 
Listen!  Is  n't  that  a  great  tune?  Lifts  you  up  on  your  feet 
and  carries  you  over  there.  Gee,  it  just  gets  into  a  fellow 
and  makes  him  want  to  run  for  his  gun  and  charge  over  the 
top.  (He  goes  to  balcony.)  Look!  They're  nearing  here;  all 
ready  to  sail  with  the  morning  tide.  They've  got  their 
helmets  on.  You  can't  see  the  end  of  them  coming  down 
the  avenue.  Oh,  thank  God,  I  'm  going  to  be  one  of  them 
soon.  Thank  God!  I'm  going  to  jfight  for  Uncle  Sam  and 
the  Stars  and  Stripes.  (Calls  off)  Hurrah!  (To  them)  Oh, 
I  wish  I  had  a  flag.  Why  have  n't  we  got  a  flag  here?  — 
Hurrah!! 

(As  he  goes  out  on  the  balcony  the  music  plays  louder. 
Hilda  has  gone  to  White  during  this,  and  stands  be- 
hind him,  with  her  arms  down  his  arms,  as  he  sits 
there,  gazing  before  him.) 
Hilda  (fervently).  Oh,  Will,  if  I  could  only  feel  it  as  he 
does ! ! 

(The  music  begins  to  trail  off  as  White  tenderly  takes 
hold  of  her  hands.) 

[Curtain] 


ILE 

EUGENE  O'NEILL 

SCENE:  Captain  Keeney's  cabin  on  hoard  the  steam  whal- 
ing ship  Atlantic  Queen  —  a  small,  square  compart- 
ment, about  eight  feet  high,  ivith  a  skylight  in  the  centre 
looking  out  on  the  poop  deck.  On  the  left  {the  stern  of  the 
ship)  a  long  bench  icith  rough  cushions  is  built  in  against 
the  wall.  In  front  of  the  bench,  a  table.  Over  the  bench, 
several  curtained  portholes. 

In  the  rear,  left,  a  door  leading  to  the  captain  s  sleeping- 
quarters.  To  the  right  of  the  door  a  small  organ,  lookiruj 
as  if  it  were  brand-new,  is  placed  against  the  wall. 

On  the  right,  to  the  rear,  a  marble-topped  sideboard. 
On  the  sideboard,  a  woman's  sewing-basket.  Farther  for- 
ward, a  doorway  leading  to  the  companion  way,  and  past 
the  officers'  quarters  to  the  main  deck. 

In  the  centre  of  the  room,  a  stove.  From  the  middle  of 
the  ceiling  a  hanging  lamp  is  suspended.  The  iralls  of 
the  cabin  are  painted  ichite. 

There  is  no  rolling  of  the  ship,  and  the  light  which 
comes  through  the  skylight  is  sickly  and  faint,  indicating 
one  of  those  gray  days  of  calm  when  ocean  and  sky  are 
alike  dead.  The  silence  is  unbroken  except  for  the  mea.^- 
ured  tread  of  someone  walking  up  and  down  on  the  poop 
deck  overhead. 

It  is  nairing  two  bells  —  one  o'clock  —  in  the  after- 
noon of  a  day  in  the  year  1S95. 


ILE  65 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  there  is  a  moment  of  intense 
silence.  Then  the  Steward  enters  and  commences  to 
clear  the  table  of  the  few  dishes  which  still  remain  on  it 
after  the  Captain's  dinner.  He  is  an  old,  grizzled  man 
dressed  in  dungaree  jpants,  a  sweater,  and  a  woolen  cap 
with  ear-flaps.  His  manner  is  sullen  and  angry.  He  stops 
stacking  up  the  plates  and  casts  a  quick  glance  upward 
at  the  skylight;  then  tiptoes  over  to  the  closed  door  in  rear 
and  listens  with  his  ear  pressed  to  the  crack.  What  he 
hears  makes  his  face  darken  and  he  mutters  a  furious 
curse.  There  is  a  noise fromthe  doorway  on  the  rights  and 
he  darts  hack  to  the  table. 

Ben  enters.  He  is  an  over-grown,  gawky  hoy  vnth  a 
long,  pinched  face.  He  is  dressed  in  sweater,  fur  cap, 
etc.  His  teeth  are  chattering  with  the  cold  and  he  hurries 
to  the  stove,  where  he  stands  for  a  moment  shivering, blow- 
ing on  his  hands,  slapping  them  against  his  sides,  on  the 
verge  of  crying. 

The  Steward  {in  relieved  tones  —  seeing  who  it  is).  Oh, 
't  is  you,  is  it?  What 're  ye  shiverin'  'bout?  Stay  by  the 
stove  where  ye  belong  and  ye '11  find  no  need  of  chatterin'. 

Ben.  It's  c-c-old.  (Trying  to  control  his  chattering 
teeth  —  derisively)  Who  d'  ye  think  it  were  —  the  Old 
Man? 

The  Steward.  (He  makes  a  threatening  move  —  Ben 
shrinks  aioay.)  None  o'  your  lip,  young  un,  or  I'll  learn  ye. 
{More  kindly)  Where  was  it  ye ' ve  been  all  o'  the  time  — 
the  fo'c's'le? 

Ben.  Yes. 

The  Steward.  Let  the  Old  Man  see  ye  up  for'ard  mon- 
key-shiiiin'  with  the  hands  and  ye  '11  get  a  hidin'  ye  '11  not 
forget  in  a  hurry. 

Ben.  Aw,  he  don't  see  nothin'.    {A  trace  of  awe  in  his 


66  ILE 

tones  —  he  glances  upward.)  He  just  walks  up  and  down 
like  he  did  n't  notice  nolx)dy  —  and  stares  at  the  ice  to  the 
no'th'ard. 

The  Steward  {the  same  tone  of  awe  creeping  into  his 
voice).  He's  always  starin'  at  the  ice.  (In  a  sudden  rage, 
shaking  his  fist  at  the  skylight)  Ice,  ice,  ice!  Damn  him  and 
damn  the  ice!  Holdin'  us  in  for  nigh  on  a  year  —  nothin' 
to  see  but  ice  —  stuck  in  it  like  a  fly  in  molasses! 

Ben  (apprehensively).   Ssshh!  He'll  hear  ye. 

The  Steward  (raging).  Aye,  damn  him,  and  damn  the 
Arctic  seas,  and  damn  this  stinkin'  whalin'  ship  of  his,  and 
damn  me  for  a  fool  to  ever  ship  on  it !  (Subsiding,  as  if  realiz- 
ing the  uselessness  of  this  outburst  —  shaking  his  head  — 
sloivly,  with  deep  conviction)  He's  a  hard  man  —  as  hard  a 
man  as  ever  sailed  the  seas. 

Ben  (solemnly).  Aye. 

The  Steward.  The  two  years  we  all  signed  up  for  are 
done  this  day.  Blessed  Christ !  Two  years  o'  this  dog  *s  life, 
and  no  luck  in  the  fishin',  and  the  hands  half  starved  with 
the  food  runnin*  low,  rotten  as  it  is;  and  not  a  sign  of  him 
turnin' back  for  home!  [Bilterly)  Home!  I  begin  to  doubt 
if  ever  I  '11  set  foot  on  land  again.  (Excitedly)  What  is  it  he 
thinks  he  's  goin*  todo?  Kccj)  us  alluphcre  after  ourtimcis 
worked  out  till  the  last  man  of  us  is  starxod  to  death  or 
frozen?  We've  grub  enough  hardly  to  last  out  the  voyage 
back  if  we  started  now.  What  arc  the  men  goiiT  to  do  'bout 
it?  Did  ye  hoar  any  talk  in  the  fo'c's'le? 

Ben  (going  over  to  him  —  in  a  half- whisper).  They  said 
if  he  don't  put  back  south  for  home  to-day  they're  goin'  to 
mutiny. 

The  Steward  (ivith  grim  satisfaction).  Mutiny?  Aye, 
'tis  the  only  thing  they  can  do;  and  serve  him  right  after 
the  maimer  he 's  treated  them  —  's  if  they  were  n't  no  better 
nor  dogs. 


ILE  67 

Ben.  The  ice  is  all  broke  up  to  s'uth'rd.  They 's  clear 
water's  far's  you  can  see.  He  ain't  got  no  excuse  for  not 
turnin'  back  for  home,  the  men  says. 

The  Steward  (bitterly).  He  won't  look  nowheres  but 
no'th'rd  where  they 's  only  the  ice  to  see.  He  don't  want 
to  see  no  clear  water.  All  he  thinks  on  is  gittin'  the  ile  —  's 
if  it  was  our  fault  he  ain't  had  good  luck  with  the  whales. 
{Shaking  his  head)  I  think  the  man 's  mighty  nigh  losin'  his 
senses. 

Ben  (awed).  D'  you  really  think  he's  crazy? 

The  Steward.  Aye,  it's  the  punishment  o'  God  on  him. 
Did  ye  hear  ever  of  a  man  who  was  n't  crazy  do  the  things 
he  does?  (Pointing  to  the  door  in  rear)  Who  but  a  man 
that 's  mad  would  take  his  woman  —  and  as  sweet  a  woman 
as  ever  was  —  on  a  stinkin'  whalin'  ship  to  the  Arctic  seas  to 
be  locked  in  by  the  rotten  ice  for  nigh  on  a  year,  and  maybe 
lose  her  senses  forever  —  for  it 's  sure  she  '11  never  be  the 
same  again. 

Ben  (sadly) .  She  useter  be  awful  nice  to  me  before  — 
(his  eyes  grow  wide  and  frightened)  she  got  —  like  she  is. 

The  Steward.  Aye,  she  was  good  to  all  of  us.  'T  would 
have  been  hell  on  board  without  her ;  for  he 's  a  hard  man  — 
a  hard,  hard  man  —  a  driver  if  there  ever  was  one.  (With  a 
grim  laugh)  I  hope  he's  satisfied  now — drivin'  her  on  till 
she 's  near  lost  her  mind.  And  who  could  blam6  her?  'T  is  a 
God's  wonder  we  're  not  a  ship  full  of  crazed  people  —  with 
the  damned  ice  all  the  time,  and  the  quiet  so  thick  you're 
afraid  to  hear  your  o^n  voice. 

Ben  (loith  a  frightened  glance  toward  the  door  on  right). 
She  don't  never  speak  to  me  no  more  —  jest  looks  at  me  's 
if  she  did  n't  know  me. 

The  Steward.  She  don't  know  no  one  —  but  him.  She 
talks  to  him  —  when  she  does  talk  —  right  enough. 

Ben.  She  does  nothin'  all  day  long  now  but  sit  and 


68  ILE 

sew  —  and  then  she  cries  to  herself  without  makin*  no 
noise.   I've  seen  her. 

The  Steward.     Aye,  I  could  hear  her  through  the  door 
a  while  back. 

Ben  {tiptoes  over  to  the  door  and  listens).    She's  cryin' 
now. 

The  Steward  (furiously  —  shaking  hi.f  fist).   God  send 
his  soul  to  hell  for  the  devil  he  is! 

(There  is  the  noise  of  someone  coming  sloirhj  doicn  the 

companionway  stairs.   The  Steward  hurries  to  his 

stackcd-up  dijihes.  He  is  so  nervous  from  fright  thai  he 

knocks  off  the  top  one,  irhich  falls  and  breaks  on  the 

floor.  He  stands  aghast,  trembling  icith  dread.   Ben 

is  violently  rubbing  off  the  organ  with  a  piece  of  cloth 

which  he  has  snatched  from  his  pocket.    Captain 

Keeney  appears  in  the  doorway  on  right  and  comes 

into  the  cabin,  removing  his  fur  cap  as  he  does  so. 

He  is  a  man  of  about  forty,  around  fiic-ten  in  height, 

hut  looking  much  shorter  on  account  of  the  enormow< 

proportions  of  his  shoulders  and  chest.    His  face  is 

massive  and  deeply  lined,  with  gray-blue  eyes  of  a 

bkak  hardness,  and  a  tightly  clenched,  thin-lipped 

mouth.  His  thick  hair  is  long  and  gray.  He  is  dressed 

in  a  heavy  blue  jacket  and  blue  pants  stuffed  into  his 

sea-boots. 

He  is  followed  into  the  cabin  by  the  Second  Mate,  a 

rangy  six-footer  with  a  lean,  weatherbeaten  face.    1  he 

Mate  is  dressed  about  the  same  as  the  captain.  He  is 

a  man  of  thirty  or  so.) 

Keeney.  (( 'onies  toward  the  Steward  —  irith  a  stern  look 

on  his  face.   The  Steward  is  visibly  frightened  and  the  stack 

of  di.shes  rattles  in  his  trembling  hands.  Keeney  drairs  back 

his  fist  and  the  Steward  shrinks  away.    The  fist  is  gradually 

lowered  and  Keesey  speaks  slowly.)  *T  would  be  like  hitting 


ILE  69 

a  worm.   It  is  nigh  on  two  bells,  Mr.  Steward,  and  this 
tfuck  not  cleared  yet. 

The  Steward  (stammering).  Y-y-yes,  sir. 
Keeney.  Instead  of  doin'  your  rightful  work  ye ' ve  been 
below  here  gossipin'  old  woman's  talk  with  that  boy. 
( To  "Bun  fiercely)  Get  out  o'  this,  you !  Clean  up  the  chart- 
room.  (Ben  darts  past  the  Mate  to  the  open  doorway.)  Pick 
up  that  dish,  Mr.  Steward! 

The  Steward  (doing  so  vyiih  difficulty).  Yes,  sir. 
Keeney.  The  next  dish  you  break,  Mr.  Steward,  you 
take  a  bath  in  the  Bering  Sea  at  the  end  of  a  rope. 
The  Steward  (tremblingly).      Yes,  sir. 

(He  hurries  out.  The  Second  Mate  walks  slowly  over 
to  the  Captain.) 
Mate.  I  warn't  'specially  anxious  the  man  at  the  wheel 
should  catch  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you,  sir.  That 's  why 
I  asked  you  to  come  below. 

Keeney  (impatiently).  Speak  your  say,  Mr.  Slocum. 
Mate  (unconsciously  lowering  his  voice).  I'm  afeard 
there'll  be  trouble  with  the  hands  by  the  look  o'  things. 
They  '11  likely  turn  ugly,  every  blessed  one  o'  them,  if  you 
don't  put  back.  The  two  years  they  signed  up  for  is  up 
to-day. 

Keeney.  And  d' you  think  you're  tellin'  me  somethin' 
new,  Mr.  Slocum?  I  've  felt  it  in  the  air  this  long  time  past. 
D'  you  think  I've  not  seen  their  ugly  looks  and  the  grudgin' 
way  they  worked? 

(The  door  in  rear  is  opened  and  Mrs.  Keeney  stands  in 
the  doorway.  She  is  a  slight,  sweet-faced  little  woman 
primly  dressed  in  black.  Her  eyes  are  red  from  weeping 
and  her  face  drawn  and  pale.  She  takes  in  the  cabin 
with  a  frightened  glance  and  stands  as  if  fixed  to  the 
spot  by  some  nameless  dread,  clasping  and  unclasping 
her  hands  nervously.  The  two  men  turn  and  look  at 
her.) 


70  ILE 

Keeney  (iciih  rough  tenderness).   Well,  .Vnnie? 

Mrs.  Keeney  (as  if  aicakening  from  a  dream).  David, 
I  —  {She  is  silent.  The  Mate  starts  for  the  doorway.) 

Keeney  {turning  to  him  —  sharply).   Wait ! 

Mate.  Yes,  sir. 

KeeneYi,  D'  you  want  anything,  Annie? 

Mrs.  Keeney  {after  a  pause,  during  ichich  she  seems  to 
be  endeavoring  to  collect  her  thoughts).  I  thought  maybe  — 
I'd  go  up  on  deck,  David,  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

{She  stands  humbly  awaiting  his  permission.    He  and 
the  Mate  exchange  a  significant  glance.) 

Keeney.  It's  too  cold,  Annie.  You'd  best  stay  below 
to-day.  There's  nothing  to  look  at  on  deck  —  but  ice. 

Mrs.  Keexey  {monotonou.'<li/).  I  know  —  ice,  ice,  ice! 
But  there's  nothing  to  see  down  here  but  these  walls. 

{She  makes  a  gesture  of  loathing.) 

Keeney.  You  can  play  the  organ,  Annie. 

Mrs.  Keeney  {dully).  I  hate  the  organ.  It  puts  mo  in 
mind  of  home. 

Keeney  («  touch  of  resentment  in  his  roice).  I  got  it  jest 
for  you. 

Mrs.  Keeney  {dully).  I  know.  {She  turns  away  from 
them  and  walks  .slowly  to  the  bench  on  left.  She  lifts  up  one  of 
the  curtains  and  looks  through  a  porthole;  thcti  utters  an  ex- 
clamation of  joy.)  Ah,  water!  Clearwater!  As  far  as  I  can 
see!  IIow  good  it  looks  after  all  these  months  of  ice!  (She 
turns  round  to  them,  her  face  transfigured  with  joy.)  Ah,  now 
I  mu.st  go  upon  deck  and  look  at  it,  David. 

Keeney  (frowning).  Best  not  to-dny,  Annie.  Best  wait 
for  a  day  when  the  sun  shines. 

Mrs.  Keeney  (des^perately) .  But  the  sun  never  shines 
in  this  terrible  place. 

Keeney  (a  tone  ofcomtnand  in  his  voice).  Best  not  to-day, 
Annie. 


ILE  71 

IVIrs.  Keeney  (crumbling  before  this  command  —  a6- 
jecthj).  Very  well,  David. 

(She  stands  there  staring  straight  before  her  as  if  in  a 
daze.   The  two  men  look  at  her  uneasily.) 

Keeney  (sharply).  Annie! 

Mrs.  Keeney  (dully).  Yes,  David. 

Keeney.  Me  and  Mr.  Slocum  has  business  to  talk  about 
—  ship 's  business. 

Mrs.  Keeney.  Very  well,  David. 

(She  goes  slowly  out,  rear,  and  leaves  the  door  three  quar- 
ters shut  behind  her. 

Keeney.  Best  not  have  her  on  deck  if  they 's  goin'  to  be 
any  trouble. 

IVIate.  Yes,  sir. 

Keeney.  And  trouble  they 's  goin' to  be.  I  feel  it  in  my 
bones.  (Takes  a  revolver  from  the  pocket  of  his  coat  and  exam- 
ines it.)  Got  yourn? 

Mate.  Yes,  sir. 

Keeney.  Not  that  we  '11  have  to  use  'em  —  not  if  I  know 
their  breed  of  dog  —  jest  to  frighten  'em  up  a  bit.  (Grimly) 
I  ain't  never  been  forced  to  use  one  yit;  and  trouble  I've 
had  by  land  and  by  sea  's  long  as  I  kin  remember,  and  will 
have  till  my  dyin'  day,  I  reckon. 

Mate  (hesitatingly).  Then  you  ain't  goin'  —  to  turn 
back? 

Keeney.  Turn  back!  Mr.  Slocum,  did  you  ever  hear  o' 
me  pointin'  s'uthfor  home  with  only  a  measly  four  hundred 
barrel  of  ile  in  the  hold? 

Mate  (hastily).  No,  sir  —  but  the  grub's  gittin'  low. 

Keeney.  They 's  enough  to  last  a  long  time  yit,  if  they 
're  careful  with  it;  and  they's  plenty  o'  water. 

Mate.  They  say  it 's  not  fit  to  eat  —  what 's  left;  and  the 
two  years  they  signed  on  fur  is  up  to-day.  They  might 
make  trouble  for  you  in  the  courts  when  we  git  home. 


72  ILE 

Keeney.  To  hell  with  'em!  Let  them  make  what  law 
trouble  they  kin.  I  don't  give  a  damn  'bout  the  money. 
I  've  got  to  git  the  ile !  {Glancing  sharply  at  the  Mate)  You 
ain't  turnin'  no  damned  sea  la^\yer,  be  you,  Mr.  Slocum? 

Mate  {flushing).  Not  by  a  hell  of  a  sight,  sir. 

Keeney.  \Miat  do  the  fools  want  to  go  home  fur  now? 
Their  share  o'  the  four  hundred  barrel  would  n't  keep  'em 
in  chewin'  tcrbacco. 

Mate  {slouiy).  They  wants  to  git  back  to  their  folks 
an'  things,  I  s'pose. 

Keeney  {looking  at  him  scarchinghj).  'N'  you  want  to 
turn  back,  too.  (Ti i e  jMate  looks  doicn  confusedly  before  h  is 
sharp  gaze.)  Don't  lie,  Mr.  Slocum.  It 's  writ  do\%Ti  plain  in 
your  eyes.  {With  grim  sarcasm)  I  hope,  Mr.  Slocum,  you 
ain't  agoin'  to  jine  the  men  agin  me. 

Mate  {indignantly).  That  ain't  fair,  sir,  to  say  sich  things. 

Keeney  {icith  satisfaciion).  I  warn't  much  afcard  o' 
that,  Tom.  You  been  with  me  nigh  on  ten  year  and  I've 
learned  ye  whalin'.  No  man  kin  say  I  ain't  a  good  master, 
if  I  be  a  hard  one. 

ISIate.  I  warn't  thinkin'  of  myself,  sir  —  'bout  turnin' 
home,  I  mean.  {Desperately)  But  ^Irs.  Keeney,  sir  — 
seems  like  she  ain't  jest  satisfied  up  here,  ailin'  like  —  what 
with  the  cold  an'  batl  luck  an'  the  ice  an'  all. 

Keeney  {his  face  clouding  —  rebukingly  but  not  severely). 
That's  my  business,  Mr.  Slocum.  I'll  thank  you  to  steer 
a  clear  course  o'  that.  (.1  pause.)  The  ice  11  break  up 
soon  to  no'th'rd.  I  could  see  it  startin'  to-day.  And  when 
it  goes  and  we  git  some  sun.  Annie '11  perk  up.  {.Another 
pause  —  then  he  bursts  forth)  It  ain't  the  danmed  money 
what's  keepin'  me  up  in  the  Northern  seas,  Tom.  But  I 
can't  go  back  to  Ilomcport  with  a  measly  four  hundred  bar- 
rel of  ile.  I  'd  (lie  fust.  I  ain't  never  come  back  home  in  all 
my  days  without  a  full  ship.  Ain't  that  truth? 


ILE  73 

Mate.  Yes,  sir;  but  this  voyage  you  been  ice-bound, 
an'  — 

Keeney  {scornfully).  And  d'  you  s'pose  any  of  'em  would 
believe  that  —  any  o'  them  skippers  I  've  beaten  voyage 
after  voyage?  Can't  you  hear  'em  laughin'  and  sneerin'  — 
Tibbots  'n'  Harris  'n'  Simms  and  the  rest  —  and  all  o' 
Homeport  makin'  fun  o'  me?  "Dave  Keeney  what  boasts 
he 's  the  best  whalin'  skipper  out  o'  Homeport  comin'  back 
with  a  measly  four  hundred  barrel  of  ile? "  {The  thought  of 
this  drives  him  into  a  frenzy,  and  he  smashes  his  fist  down  on 
the  marble  top  of  the  sideboard.)  Hell !  I  got  to  git  the  ile,  I 
tell  you.  How  could  I  figger  on  this  ice?  It 's  never  been  so 
bad  before  in  the  thirty  year  I  been  a-comin'  here.  And  now 
it 's  breakin'  up.  In  a  couple  o'  days  it  '11  be  all  gone.  And 
they 's  whale  here,  plenty  of  'em.  I  know  they  is  and  I  ain't 
never  gone  wrong  yit.  I  got  to  git  the  ile !  I  got  to  git  it 
in  spite  of  all  hell,  and  by  God,  I  ain't  a-goin'  home  till  I  do 
git  it! 

{There  is  the  sound  of  subdued  sobbing  from  the  door  in 
rear.  The  two  men  stand  silent  for  a  moment,  listening. 
Then  Keeney  goes  over  to  the  door  and  looks  in.  He 
hesitates  for  a  moment  as  if  he  were  going  to  enter  — 
then  closes  the  door  softly.  Joe,  the  harpooner,  an 
enormous  six-footer  with  a  battered,  ugly  face,  enters 
from  right  and  stands  waiting  for  the  captain  to  notice 
him.)  (j)jM  -  '"-^  ' 
Keeney  {turning  and  seeing  him).  Don't  be  standin' 
there  like  a  gawk,  Harpooner.  Speak  up ! 

Joe  {confusedly).  We  want  —  the  men,  sir  —  they  want 
to  send  a  depitation  aft  to  have  a  word  with  you. 

Keeney  {furiously).  Tell  'em  to  go  to —  {checks  him- 
self and  continues  grimly)  Tell  'em  to  come.  I  '11  see  'em. 
Joe.  Aye,  aye,  sir. 

{He  goes  out.) 


74  ILE 

Keenet  (with  a  grim  smik).  Here  it  comes,  the  trou- 
ble you  spoke  of,  Mr.  Slocum,  and  we'll  make  short  shift  of 
it.  It's  better  to  crush  such  things  at  the  start  than  let 
them  make  headway. 

Mate  {worriedly).  Shall  I  wake  up  the  First  and  Fourth, 
sir?   We  might  need  their  help. 

Keeney.  No,  let  them  sleep.  I'm  well  able  to  handle 
this  alone,  Mr.  Slocum. 

{There  is  the  shuffling  of  footsteps  from  outside  and  fire 
of  the  crew  croxcd  into  the  cabin,  led  by  Joe.  .1//  are 
dressed  alike  —  siceaiers,  sea-boots,  etc.  They  glance 
uneasily  at  the  Captain,  ticirling  their  fur  caps  in 
their  hands.) 

Keeney  {after  a  pause).  Well?  Who's  to  speak  fur  ye.' 

Joe  {stepping  forward  with  an  air  of  bravado).   I  be. 

Keeney  {eyeing  him  up  and  down  coldly).  So  you  be. 
Then  speak  your  say  and  be  quick  about  it. 

Joe  {trying  not  to  wilt  before  the  Captain's  glance  and 
avoiding  his  eyes).  The  time  we  signed  up  for  is  done  to-day. 

Keeney  {icily).  You're  tellin'  me  nothin'  I  don't  know. 

Joe.  You  ain't  p'intin'  fur  home  yit,  fur's  we  kin  see. 

Keeney.  No,  and  I  ain't  agoin'  to  till  this  ship  is  full  of 
ile. 

Joe.  You  can't  go  no  further  no'the  with  the  ice  afore  ye. 

Keeney.  The  ice  is  breaking  up. 

Joe  {after  a  slight  pause  during  which  the  others  mumble 
angrily  to  one  another).  Tlie  grub  we're  gittiii'  now  is  rotten. 

Keeney.  It's  good  enough  fur  ye.  Hotter  men  than  yo 
are  have  eaten  worse, 

{There  is  a  chorus  of  angry  exclamations  from  the  croird.) 

Joe  {encouraged  by  this  support).  We  ain't  a-goin'  to  work 
no  more  'less  you  puts  back  fur  home. 

Keeney  {fiercely).  You  ain't,  ain't  you? 

Joe.  No;  and  the  law  courts  'II  say  we  was  right. 


ILE  75 

Keeney.  To  hell  with  your  law  courts!  We're  at  sea 
now  and  I  'm  the  law  on  this  ship.  {Edging  up  toward  the 
harpooner.)  And  every  mother's  son  of  you  what  don't 
obey  orders  goes  in  irons. 

(There  are  more  angry  exclamations  from  the  crew.  Mrs. 
Keeney  appears  in  the  doorway  in  rear  and  looks  on 
with  startled  eyes.  None  of  the  men  notices  her.) 
Joe  (with  bravado).  Then  we're  a-goin'  to  mutiny  and 
take  the  old  hooker  home  ourselves.  Ain't  we,  boys? 

(As  he  turns  his  head  to  look  at  the  others,  J^eeney*s 
fist  shoots  out  to  the  side  of  his  jaw.  Joe  goes  down  in  a 
heap  and  lies  there.  Mrs.  Keeney  gives  a  shriek  and 
hides  her  face  in  her  hands.  The  men  pull  out  their 
sheath  knives  and  start  a  rush,  but  stop  when  they  find 
themselves  confronted  by  the  revolvers  of  Keeney  and  j   J^ 

the  Mate.)        ^    i(-;:2:ioix  ^^:^>ti:^^  -^r^ 

Keeney  (his  eyes  and  voice  snapping).  Hold  still!  (The 
men  stand  huddled  together  in  a  sullen  silence.  Keeney's 
voice  is  full  of  mockery.)  You  've  found  out  it  ain't  safe  to 
mutiny  on  this  ship,  ain't  you?  And  now  git  for'ard  where 
ye  belong,  and  (he  gives  Joe's  body  a  contemptuous  kick) 
drag  him  with  you.  And  remember,  the  first  man  of  ye  I  see 
shirkin'  I  '11  shoot  dead  as  sure  as  there 's  a  sea  under  us,  and 
you  can  tell  the  rest  the  same.  Git  for'ard  now!  Quick! 
(The  men  leave  in  cowed  silence,  carrying  Joe  vnth  them, 
Keeney  turns  to  the  IVIate  with  a  short  laugh  and  puts  his 
revolver  back  in  his  pocket.)  Best  get  up  on  deck,  Mr.  Slo- 
cum,  and  see  to  it  they  don't  try  none  of  their  skulkin' 
tricks.  We  '11  have  to  keep  an  eye  peeled  from  now  on.  I 
know  'em. 

Mate.  Yes,  sir. 

(He  goes  out,  right.  Keeney  hears  his  wife's  hysterical 
weeping  and  turns  around  in  surprise  —  then  walks 
slowly  to  her  side.) 


< 


76  ILE 

Keeney  (putting  an  arm  aruinul  her  shoulder  —  with 
gruff  tenderness).  There,  there,  Annie.  Don't  be  afeard.  It's 
all  pjLst  and  pone. 

Irs.  Kekney  (shrinking  away  from  him).   Oh,  I  can't 
bear  it!  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer! 

Keeney  (gently).  Can't  bear  what,  Annie? 

Mrs.  Keeney  (hysterically).  All  this  horriljle  brutaUt^ 

and  these  brutes  of  men,  and  this  terrible  ship,  and  this 

prison  cell  of  a  room,  and  the  ice  all  around,  and  the  sLleuce. 

(After  this  outburst  she  calms  dowji  and  icipes  her  eyes 

with  her  handkerchief.) 

Keeney  (after  a  pause  during  which  he  looks  down  at  her 
with  a  puzzled  frown).  Remember,  I  warn't  hankeriu'  to 
have  you  come  on  this  voyage,  Annie.  ~' 

Mrs.  Keeney.  I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  David,  don't 
you  sec?  I  did  n't  want  to  wait  back  there  in  the  house  all 
alone  as  I've  been  doing  these  last  six  years  since  we  were 
married  —  waiting,  and  watching,  and  fearing —  with  noth- 
ing to  kccf)  my  mind  occufjiod  —  not  able  to  ~n  hanlitOQoli 
lag  school  do^account  of  bein^  Dave  Keeney '«j  wifr.  I  used 
to  dream  of  sailing  on  the  great,  wide,  glorious  ocean.  I 
wanted  to  be  })y  your  side  in  the  danger  arul  vigorous  life  of 
it  all.  I  wanted  to  see  you  the  hero  they  make  30U  out  to4>e 
in  Ilomeport.  And  instead — (her  voice  grows  tremulou.s) 
all  I  find  is  icoand  cold  —  and  brutality! 

(Her  voice  breaks.) 

Keeney.  I  warned  you  what  it'd  be,  Annie,  "^^^^alin' 
ain't  no  ladies'  tea  party,"  I  says  to  you,  "and  you  l>etter 
stay  to  home  where  you  've  got  all  your  woman's  comforts." 
(Shaking  his  head)  But  you  was  so  set  on  it. 

Mrs.  Keeney  (wearily).  Oh,  I  know  it  is  n't  your  fault. 
David.  Vou  see,  I  did  n't  believe  you.  I  guess  I  was 
ilreaming  about  the  old  Vikings  in  the  story-books  and  I 
thought  you  were  one  of  them. 


^  ILE  77 

Keeney  (protestingly) .  I  done  my  best  to  make  it  as  cozy 
and  comfortable  as  could  be.  (Mrs.  Keeney  looks  around 
her  in  wild  scorn.)  I  even  sent  to  the  city  for  that  organ  for 
ye,  thinkin'  it  might  be  soothin'  to  ye  to  be  playin'  it  times 
when  they  was  calms  and  things  was  dull  like. 

Mrs.  Keeney  (wearily).  Yes,  you  were  very  kind,  David. 
I  know  that.  (She  goes  to  left  and  lifts  the  curtains  from  the 
porthole  arid  looks  out  —  then  suddenly  bursts  forth.)  I  won't 
stand  it  —  I  can't  stand  it  —  pent  up  by  these  walls  like  a 
prisoner.  (She  runs  over  to  him  and  throws  her  arms  around 
him,  weeping.  He  puts  his  arm  proteciingly  over  her  shoulders.) 
Take  me  away  from  here,  David!  If  I  don't  get  away  from 
here,  out  of  this  terrible  ship,  I'll  go  mad!  Take  me  home, 
David !  I  can't  think  any  more.  I  feel  as  if  the  cold  and  the 
silence  were  crushing  down  on  my  brain.  I  'm  afraid.  Take 
me  home! 

Keeney  (holds  her  at  arm^s  length  and  looks  at  her  face 
anxiously).  Best  go  to  bed,  Annie.  You  ain't  yourself.  You 
got  fever.  Your  eyes  look  so  strange  like.  I  ain't  never  seen 
you  look  this  way  before. 

IVIrs.  Keeney  (laughing  hysterically).  It's  the  ice  and 
the  cold  and  the  silence  —  they'd  make  anyone  look 
strange. 

Keeney  (soothingly).  In  a  month  or  two,  with  good  luck, 
three  at  the  most,  I  '11  have  her  filled  with  ile  and  then  we  '11 
give  her  everything  she'll  stand  and  p'int  for  home. 

Mrs.  Keeney.  But  we  can't  wait  for  that  —  I  can't 
wait.  I  want  to  get  home.  And  the  men  won't  wait.  They 
want  to  get  home.  It's  cruel,  it's  brutal  for  you  to  keep 
them.  You  must  sail  back.  You  've  got  no  excuse.  There 's 
clear  water  to  the  south  now.  If  you've  a  heart  at  all, 
you  've  got  to  turn  back. 

Keeney  (harshly).  I  can't,  Annie.  - 

Mrs.  Keeney.  Why  can't  you? 


i 


78  ILE 

Keeney.  a  woman  could  n't  rightly  understand  my 
reason. 

Mrs.  Keexet  (wildly).  Because  it's  a  stupid,  stubborn 
reason.  Oh,  I  heard  you  talking  with  the  second  mate. 
You're  afraid  the  other  Captains  will  sneer  at  you  because 
you  did  n't  come  back  with  a  full  ship.  You  want  to  live  up 
to  your  silly  reputation  even  if  you  do  have  to  beat  and 
starve  men  and  drive  me  mad  to  do  it. 

Keeney  {his  jaw  set  stubbornly).  It  ain't  that,  Annie. 
Them  skippers  would  never  dare  sneer  to  my  face.  It  ain't 
so  much  what  anyone  'd  say  —  but  —  (lie  hesitates,  strug- 
gling to  express  his  vieaning.)  You  see  —  I  've  always  done 
it  —  since  my  first  voyage  as  skipper.  I  always  come  back 
—  with  a  full  ship  —  and  —  it  don't  seem  right  not  to  — 
somehow.  I  been  always  first  wlialin'  skipper  out  o'  Home- 
port,  and  —  Don't  you  see  my  meanin',  Annie.'  {He  glances 
at  her.  She  is  not  looking  at  him  but  staring  dully  in  front  of 
her,  not  hearing  a  word  he  is  saying.)  Anaiel  -{She  comes  to 
herself  with  a  start.)  Best  turn  in,  Annie,  there'«~a-gQod_ 
woman.  You  ain't  well. 

Mrs.  Keeney  {resisting  his  atiempts  to  guide  lier  to  the 
door  in  rear).   David!  Won't  you  please  turn  back? 

Keeney  {gently).  I  can't,  Annie  —  not  yet  awhile.  You 
don't  see  my  meanin'.   I  got  to  git  the  ile. 

Mrs.  Keeney.  It'd  be  different  if  you  needed  the 
money,  but  you  don't.   You've  got  more  than  plenty. 

Keeney  {impatiently).  It  ain't  the  money  I'm  thinkin* 
of.  D*  you  think  I'm  as  mean  as  that? 

Mrs.  Keeney  {dully).  No  —  I  don't  know — I  can't 
understand —  (Intensely)  Oh,  I  want  to  l>e  home  in  the 
old  house  once  more  and  see  my  own  kitchen  again,  and 
hear  a  woman's  voice  talking  to  me  and  be  al)le  to  talk  to 
her.  Two  years !  It  seems  so  long  ago  —  as  if  I  'd  been  dead 
and  could  never  go  back. 


ILE  79 

Keeney  {xwrried  by  her  strange  tone  and  the  far-away  look 
in  her  eyes).  Best  go  to  bed,  Annie.  You  ain't  well. 

Mrs.  Keeney  {not  appearing  to  hear  him).  I  used  to  be 
lonely  when  you  were  away.  I  used  to  think  Homeport  was 
a  stupid,  monotonous  place.  Then  I  used  to  go  down  on  the 
beach,  especially  when  it  was  windy  and  the  breakers  were 
rolling  in,  and  I  'd  dream  of  the  fine  free  life  you  must  be 
leading.  (She  gives  a  laugh  which  is  half  a  sob.)  I  used  to 
love  the  sea  then.  {She  pauses;  then  continues  ivith  slow  in- 
tensity.) But  now  —  I  don't  ever  want  to  see  the  sea  again. 

Keeney  {thinking  to  humor  her) .  'T  is  no  fit  place  for  a 
woman,  that 's  sure.  I  was  a  fool  to  bring  ye. 

Mrs.  Keeney  {after  a  pause  —  passing  her  hand  over 
her  eyes  with  a  gesture  of  pathetic  weariness).  How  long 
would  it  take  us  to  reach  home  —  if  we  started  now? 

Keeney  {frovming) .  'Bout  two  months,  I  reckon,  Annie, 
with  fair  luck. 

IVIrs.  Keeney  {counts  on  her  fingers  —  then  murmurs  vnth 
a  rapt  smile).  That  would  be  August,  the  latter  part  of  Au- 
gust, would  n't  it?  It  was  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  August  we 
were  married,  David,  was  n't  it? 

Keeney  {trying  to  conceal  the  fact  that  her  memories  have 
moved  him  —  gruffly).  Don't  you  remember? 

Mrs.  Keeney  {vaguely  —  a^ain  passes  her  hand  over  her 
eyes).  My  memory  is  leaving  me  —  up  here  in  the  ice.  It 
was  so  long  ago.  {A  pause  —  then  she  smiles  dreamily.)  It 's 
Jime  now.  The  lilacs  will  be  all  in  bloom  in  the  front  yard 
—  and  the  climbing  roses  on  the  trellis  to  the  side  of  the 
house  —  they  're  budding.  ,..,__ 

{She  suddenly  covers  her  face  with  her  hands  and  com- 
mences to  sob.) 

Keeney  (disturbed).  Go  in  and  rest,  Annie.  You're  all 
wore  out  cryin'  over  what  can't  be  helped. 

Mrs.  Keeney  (suddenly  throwing  her  arms  around  his 


\ 


80  ILE 

neck  ajid  clinging  io  him).  You  love  mc,  don't  you,  David? 

Keexe  Y  {in  omazsd  eniharrassment  at  this  outburst) .  Love 
you?  Why  d'  you  ask  me  such  a  question,  Annie? 

Mrs.  Keexey  {i-liaking  him — fiercely).  But  you  do, 
don't  you,  David?  Tell  me  I 

Keenev.  I  'm  your  husband,  Annie,  and  you  're  my  wife. 
Could  there  be  aught  but  love  between  us  after  all  these 
years? 

Mrs.  Keenev  {uliaking  him  again  —  still  more  fioreelt^. 
Then  you  do  love  me.  Say  it! 

Keenev  (simply).  I  do,  Annie. 

Mrs.  Keenev.  {Gives  a  sigh  of  relief  —  Iter  Imrule  drop  io 
her  sides.  Keeney  regards  her  anxiously.  She  pasaes  licr 
hand  uvntss  Iwr  eyes  and  murnLurs  half  to  Jierself.)  I  soiue- 
times  think  if  we  could  only  have  luui  a  child.  (KtKXEV 
turns  away  from  her^  deeply  moved.  IShc  grabs  his  arm  aiui 
turns  him  around  to  face  her  —  intensely.)  And  I  've  always 
been  a  good  wife  to  you,  have  n't  I,  David? 

Keeney  {his  voice  betraying  his  emoiion).  Xo  man  ever 
had  a  better,  Annie. 

Mrs.  Keeney.  And  I '  ve  never  asked  for  much  from  you, 
have  I,  David?  Havel? 

Keeney.  You  know  you  could  have  all  I  got  the  power 
to  give  ye,  Annie. 

Mh.s.  Keeney  {loilttty).  Then  do  this,  this  once,  for  my 
sake,  for  (iod's  sake  —  take  me  home!  It's  killing  me,  this 
life  —  the  brutality  and  cold  and  horror  of  it.  I'm  going 
mad.  I  can  feel  the  threat  in  the  air.  I  can  luar  the  silence 
threatening  me  —  day  after  gray  day  and  cvi-ry  day  the 
s-.ime.  I  can't  bear  it.  (Sobbing.)  I  'U  go  mad,  I  know  I  will. 
Take  me  home,  na\id,  if  you  love  me  as  you  say.  I'm 
afraid.   For  the  love  of  God,  take  me  home! 

(She  throws  her  arms  around  him,  weeping  against  his 
shoulder.  II  is  fare  betrays  the  tremendous  struggle  go- 
ing i>'i  irilln'n  Itiii).    lie  hohls  In  r  out  at  tirvCs  length. 


ILE  81 

his  expression  softening.  For  a  moment  his  shoulders 
sag,  he  becomes  old,  his  iron  spirit  weakens  as  he  looks 
at  her  tear-stained  face.) 
Keeney  (dragging  out  the  words  with  an  effort).  I  '11  do  it, 
Annie  —  for  your  sake  —  if  you  say  it 's  needful  for  ye. 

Mrs.  Keeney  {with  wild  joy  —  kissing  him) .  God  bless 
you  for  that,  David !  I 

(He  turns  aioay  from  her  silently  and  walks  toward  the 

companionway.  Just  at  that  moment  there  is  a  clatter 

of  footsteps  on  the  stairs  and  the  Second  Mate  enters 

the  cabin.) 

Mate  (excitedly).   The  ice  is  breakin'  up  to  no'th'rd, 

sir.    There's  a  clear  passage  through  the  floe,  and  clear 

water  beyond,  the  lookout  says. 

(Keeney  straightens  himself  like  a  man  coming  out  of  a 
trance.   Mrs.  Keeney  looks  at  the  Mate  with  terri- 
fied eyes.) 
Keeney  (dazedly  —  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts).  A  clear 
passage?  To  no'th'rd? 
IVIate.  Yes,  sii. 

Keeney  {his  voice  suddenly  grim  with  determination). 
Then  get  her  ready  and  we'll  drive  her  through. 
Mate.  Aye,  aye,  sir. 
M  tS.  Keeney  (appealingly) .  David! 
Keeney  (not  heeding  her) .  Will  the  men  turn  to  willin'  or 
must  we  drag  'em  out? 

Mate.  They  '11  turn  to  willin'  enough.  You  put  the  fear 
o'  God  into  'em,  sir.  They're  meek  as  lambs. 

Keeney.  Then  drive  'em  —  both  watches.    (With  grim 
determination)  They 's  whale  t'  other  side  o'  this  floe  and 
we  're  going  to  git  'em. 
Mate.  Aye,  aye,  sir. 

(He  goes  out  hurriedly.  A  moment  later  there  is  the 
sound  of  scuffing  feet  from  the  deck  outside  and  the 
Mate's  voice  shouting  orders.) 


82  ILE 

Keeney  (speaking  aloud  to  himself —  derisively).  And  I 
was  a-poin'  home  like  a  yallcr  dog! 
Mits.  Keeney  {imploringly).  David! 
Keeney  (sternly).  Woman,  you  ain't  a-doin'  right  when 
you  meddle  in  men's  business  and  weaken  'em.  You  can't 
know  my  feelin's.   I  got  to  prove  a  man  to  be  a  good  hus- 
band for  ye  to  take  pride  in.   I  got  to  git  the  ile,  I  tell  ye. 
Mnsi.  Kkesey  (supplicaiingly).   David!  Are  n't  you  go- 
ing home.' 

Keeney  {ignoring  this  question  —  commandingly) .  You 
ain't  well.  Go  and  lay  dovm  a  mite.  {lie  starts  for  the 
door.)     I  got  to  git  on  deck. 

(lie  goes  out.   She  cries  after  him  in  anguish,  "  David ! " 
A  pause.    She  passes  her  hand  across  her  eyes  —  then 
commences  to  laugh  hysterically  and  goes  to  the  organ. 
She  sits  down  and  starts  to  play  wildly  an  old  hymn. 
Kee.vey  reenters  from  the  doorway  to  the  deck  and 
stands  looking  at  her  angrily.  Ile  comes  over  arid  grabs 
Iter  roughly  by  the  shoulder.) 
Keeney.  Woman,  what  foolish  mockin'  is  this?    (She 
laughs  wildly,  and  he  starts  back  from  her  in  alarm.)   Annie! 
\Miat  is  it?  (She  does  7i't  answer  him.  Keeney's  voice  trem- 
bles.)  Don't  you  know  nie,  Annie? 

(He  puts  both  hands  oji  her  shoulders  and  turns  her 

around  so  that  he  can  look  into  her  eyes.  She  stares  up 

at  him  with  a  stupid  expression,  a  vague  smile  on  her 

lips.  He  stumbles  away  from  her,  and  she  commences 

softly  to  play  the  organ  again.) 

Keeney  {swalloiring  hard  —  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  as  if  he 

had  difficulty  in  speaking).    You  said  — you  was  agoin' 

mad  —  God! 

(.1    long    ivail  is   heard  from    the   deck   above:  "Ah 
bl-o-o-o-ow ! "  A  mo?nent  later  thcyi.KTK^s  face  appears 
through  the  skylight.  lie  cannot  see  Mrs.  Keeney.) 
Mate  (in  great  excitement).  Whales,  sir  —  a  whole  school 


ILE  83 

of  'em  —  off  the  starb'd  quarter  '  bout  five  mile  away  — 
big  ones ! 

Keeney  (galvanized  into  action).   Are  you  lowerin'  the 
boats? 

ISIate.  Yes,  sir. 

Keeney  (with  grim  decision).  I'm  a-comin'  with  ye. 
Mate.  Aye,  aye,  sir.  (Jubilantly)  You  '11  git  the  ile  now 
right  enough,  sir. 

(His  head  is  withdrawn  and  he  can  he  heard  shouting 
orders.) 
Keeney  (turning  to  his  vnfe) .  Annie !  Did  you  hear  him? 
I  '11  git  the  ile.  (She  does  nt  answer  or  seem  to  knoio  he  is 
there.  He  gives  a  hard  laugh,  which  is  almost  a  groan.)  I 
know  you're  foolin'  me,  Annie.  You  ain't  out  of  your  mind 
—  (anxiously)  be  you?  I'll  git  the  ile  now  right  enough  — 
jest  a  Httle  while  longer,  Annie  —  then  we'll  turn  hom'ard. 
I  can't  turn  back  now,  you  see  that,  don't  ye?  I  've  got  to 
git  the  ile.  (In  sudden  terror)  Answer  me !  You  ain't  mad, 
be  you? 

(She  keeps  on  playing  the  organ,  hut  makes  no  reply. 
The  IVlATE's/ace  appears  again  through  the  skylight.) 
Mate.  All  ready,  sir. 

(Keeney  turns  his  hack  on  his  vnfe  and  strides  to  the 
doorway,  where  he  stands  for  a  moment  and  looks  back 
at  her  in  anguish,  fighting  to  control  his  feelings.) 
Mate.  Comin',  sir? 

Keeney  (his face  suddenly  grown  hard  with  determination). 
Aye. 

(He  turns  abruptly  and  goes  out.  Mrs.  Keeney  does  not 
appear  to  notice  his  departure.  Her  whole  attention 
seems  centred  in  the  organ.  She  sits  with  half-closed 
eyes,  her  body  swaying  a  little  from  side  to  side  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  hymn.  Her  fingers  move  faster  andf aster 
and  she  is  playing  vdldly  and  discordantly  as  the  Cur- 
tain falls.) 


'■f 


CAMPBELL  OF   KIL:MII0R^ 

J.   A.   FERGISOX 

CHARACTERS 

Mary  Stewart 
MoRAG  Cameron 
DuGALD  Stewart 
Captain  Sandeman 
Arciiikald  Campbell 
James  Mackenzie 

SCENE:  Interior  of  a  lonely  collage  on  the  road  from  St  man 
to  Rannoch  in  North  Perthshire. 

TIME:  After  the  Rising  of  171^5. 

^Iorag  is  restlessly  moving  backwards  and  forwards. 
The  old  woman  is  seated  on  a  low  stool  beside  the  peat  fire 
in  the  centre  of  the  floor. 

The  room  is  scantily  furnished  and  the  women  are 
poorly  clad.  Morag  is  barefooted.  At  the  back  is  the  dixir 
that  leads  to  the  outside.  On  the  left  of  the  door  is  a  small 
window.  On  the  right  side  of  the  room  there  is  a  door  that 
opens  into  a  barn.  Morag  stands  for  a  moment  at  the 
windoic,  looking  out. 

•  Incltulcd  by  special  pormission  of  the  publishers,  Messrs.  Gowans  and 
Gray,  Glasgow. 


CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR  85 

MoRAG.  It  is  the  wild  night  outside. 

^LuiY  Stewart.  Is  the  snow  still  coming  down? 

MoRAG.  It  is  that,  then  —  dancing  and  swirling  with  the 
wind  too,  and  never  stopping  at  all.  Aye,  and  so  black  I  can- 
not see  the  other  side  of  the  road. 

IVIary  Stewart.  That  is  good. 

(MoRAG  moves  across  the  floor  and  stops  irresolutely.  She 
is  restless,  expectant.) 

Morag.  Will  I  be  putting  the  light  in  the  window? 

Mary  Stewart.  Why  should  you  be  doing  that?  You 
have  not  heard  his  call  {turns  eagerly),  have  you? 

Morag  (loith  sign  of  head).  No,  but  the  light  in  the  win- 
dow would  show  him  all  is  well. 

IVIary  Stew^art.  It  would  not,  then !  The  light  was  to  be 
put  there  after  we  had  heard  the  signal. 

Morag.  But  on  a  night  like  this  he  may  have  been  call- 
ing for  long  and  we  never  hear  him. 

Mary  Stewart.  Do  not  be  so  anxious,  Morag.  Keep  to 
what  he  says.  Put  more  peat  on  the  fire  now  and  sit  down. 

Morag  {with  increasing  excitement).  I  canna,  I  canna! 
There  is  that  in  me  that  tells  me  something  is  going  to  be- 
fall us  this  night.  Oh,  that  wind!  Hear  to  it,  sobbing  round 
the  house  as  if  it  brought  some  poor  lost  soul  up  to  the 
door,  and  we  refusing  it  shelter. 

Mary  Stewart.  Do  not  be  fretting  yourself  like  that. 
Do  as  I  bid  you.  Put  more  peats  to  the  fire. 

Morag  {at  the  loicker  peat-basket).  Never  since  I  .  .  . 
^\^lat  was  that? 

{Both  listen  for  a  moment.) 

Mary  Stewart.  It  was  just  the  wind;  it  is  rising  more. 
A  sore  night  for  them  that  are  out  in  the  heather. 

(Morag  puts  peat  on  the  fire  without  speaking.) 

Mary  Stewart.  Did  you  notice  were  there  many  peo- 
ple going  by  to-day? 


86  CA^rPBELL  OF  KIL>niOR 

MoRAG.  No.  After  daybreak  the  redcoats  came  by  from 
f^truan;  and  there  was  no  more  till  nine,  when  an  old  man 
like  the  Catcchist  from  Killichonan  passed.  At  four  o'clock, 
just  when  the  dark  was  falling,  a  horseman  with  a  lad  hold- 
ing to  the  stirrup,  and  running  fast,  went  by  towards 
Rannoch. 
Mary  Stewart.  But  no  more  redcoats.' 
MoRAG  (shaking  her  head).  The  road  has  been  as  quiet  as 
the  hills,  and  they  as  quiet  as  the  grave.  Do  you  think  will 
he  come? 

M\RY  Stewart,  Is  it  you  think  I  have  the  gift,  girl, 
that  you  ask  me  that?  All  I  know  is  that  it  is  five  days 
since  he  was  here  for  meat  and  drink  for  himself  and  for 
the  others  —  five  days  and  five  nights,  mind  you;  and 
little  enough  he  took  away;  and  those  in  hiding  no'  used 
to  such  sore  lying,  I'll  be  thinking.  He  must  try  to  get 
through  to-night.  But  that  quietness,  with  no  one  to  be 
seen  from  daylight  till  dark,  I  do  not  like  it,  Morag.  They 
must  know  something.   They  must  be  watching. 

(A  sound  is  heard  by  both  iromen.   They  staiul  listening.) 
Mary  Stkwakt.  Haste  you  with  the  light,  Morag. 
MoRAO.  But  it  came  from  the  back  of  the  house  —  from 
the  hillside. 

Mauv  Stkwart.  Do  as  I  tell  you.  The  other  side  may  be 
watched. 

(A  candle  is  lit  and  placed  in  the  irindow.  Girl  goes 
hurrying  to  the  door.) 
Mary  Stewart.  Stop,  stop!  Would  you  be  opening  the 
door  with  a  light  like  that  shining  from  the  house?  A  man 
would  be  seen  against  it  in  the  doorway  for  a  mile.  And  who 
knows  what  eyes  may  be  watching?  Put  out  the  light  now 
and  cover  the  fire. 

{Room  is  reduced  to  semi-darkness,  and  the  door  un- 
barred.  Someone  enters.) 


CAMPBELL  OP  KILMHOR  87 

MoRAG.  You  are  cold,  Dugald! 

(Stewart,  very  exhausted,  signs  assent.) 

MoRAG.  And  wet,  oh,  wet  through  and  through! 

Stewart.  Erricht  Brig  was  guarded,  well  guarded.  I 
had  to  win  across  the  water. 

{The  old  woman  has  now  relit  candle  and  taken  away 
plaid  from  fire.) 

IVL^RY  Stewart.  Erricht  Brig  —  then  — 

Stewart  (nods).  Yes  —  in  a  corrie,  on  the  far  side  of 
Dearig,  half-way  up- 

Mary  Stewart.  Himself  is  there  then? 

Stewart.  Aye,  and  Keppoch  as  well,  and  another  and  a 
greater  is  with  them. 

JVIajiy  Stewart.  Wheest !   {Glances  at  Morag.) 

Stewart.  Mother,  is  it  that  you  can  — 

Mary  Stewart.  Yes,  yes,  Morag  will  bring  out  the  food 
for  ye  to  carry  back.  It  is  under  the  hay  in  the  barn,  well 
hid.  Morag  will  bring  it.  —  Go,  Morag,  and  bring  it. 

(Morag  enters  other  room  or  barn  which  opens  on  right.) 

Stewart.  Mother,  I  wonder  at  ye;  Morag  would  never 
tell  —  never. 

IVL^RY  Stewart.  Morag  is  only  a  lass  yet.  She  has  never 
been  tried.  And  who  knows  what  she  might  be  made  to  tell. 

Stewart.  Well,  well,  it  is  no  matter,  for  I  was  telling 
you  where  I  left  them,  but  not  where  I  am  to  find  them. 

]VL^.RY  Stewart.  They  are  not  where  you  said  now? 

Stewart.  No;  they  left  the  corrie  last  night,  and  I  am  to 
find  them  {lohispers)  in  a  quiet  part  on  Rannoch  moor. 

IVLvRY  Stewart.  It  is  as  well  for  a  young  lass  not  to  be 
knowing.    Do  not  tell  her. 

{He  sits  down  at  table;  the  old  woman  ministers  to  his 
wants.) 

Stewart.  A  fire  is  a  merry  thing  on  a  night  like  this ;  and 
a  roof  over  the  head  is  a  great  comfort. 


88  CAMPBELL  OF  KILMIIOR 

Mary  Stewart.  Ye '11  no'  can  stop  the  night? 

Stewart.  No.  I  must  be  many  a  mile  from  here  before 
the  day  breaks  on  Ben  Dearig. 

(MoRAG  re'eniers.) 

MoR-\G.  It  was  hard  to  get  through,  Dugald? 

Stewart.  You  may  say  that.  I  came  down  Erricht  for 
three  miles,  and  then  when  I  reached  low  country  I  had  to 
take  to  walking  in  the  burns  because  of  the  snow  that  shows 
a  man's  steps  and  tells  who  he  is  to  them  that  can  read;  and 
there's  plenty  can  do  that  abroad,  God  knows. 

Morag.  But  none  spied  yc? 

Stewart.  \Mio  can  tell.'  Before  dark  came,  from  far  up 
on  the  slopes  of  Dearig  I  saw  soldiers  about;  and  away  to- 
wards the  Rannooh  Moor  they  were  scattered  all  over  the 
country  like  i)lack  flies  on  a  white  sheet.  A  wild  cat  or  any- 
thing that  couldna  fly  could  never  have  got  through.  And 
men  at  every  brig  and  ford  and  pass!  I  hiil  to  strike  away 
up  across  the  slopes  again;  and  even  so  ns  I  turned  round 
the  bend  beyond  Kilrain  I  ran  straight  into  a  sentry  shelter- 
ing behind  a  great  rock.   But  after  that  it  was  easy  going. 

MoR.\G.  How  could  that  be? 

Stewart.  Well,  you  sec  I  took  the  boots  off  him,  and 
then  I  had  no  need  to  mind  who  might  see  my  steps  in  the 
snow. 

Morag.  You  took  the  boots  ofT  him! 

Stkwart  (Idtirjhing).  I  did  that  same.  Docs  that  puzzle 
your  boiuiy  head?  How  (1(h\s  a  lad  take  the  boots  ofT  a  red- 
coat? Find  out  the  answer,  my  lass,  while  I  will  be  finishing 
my  meat. 

Morag.  Maybe  he  was  asleep? 

Stewart.  Asleep!   Asleep!   Well,  well,  he  sleeps  soimd 
enough  now,  with  the  ten  toes  of  him  pointed  to  the  sky. 
{The  old  iromnn  luis  {aken  up  dirk  from  tabic.   She  puts 
it  down  lujain.  Morag  sees  the  action  and  pushes  dirk 


CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR  89 

aioay  so  that  it  rolls  off  the  table  and  drops  to  the  floor. 
She  hides  her  face  in  her  hands.) 
Mary  Stewart.  Morag,  bring  in  the  kebbuck  o'  cheese. 
Now  that  all  is  well  and  safe  it  is  we  that  will  look  after  his 
comfort  to-night.  (Morag  goes  into  barn.)  —  I  mind  well 
her  mother  saying  to  me  —  it  was  one  day  in  the  black  win- 
ter that  she  died,  when  the  frost  took  the  land  in  its  grip 
and  the  birds  fell  stiff  from  the  trees,  and  the  deer  came 
down  and  put  their  noses  to  the  door  —  I  mind  well  her 
saying  just  before  she  died  — 

{Loud  knocking  at  the  door.) 
A  Voice.  In  the  King's  name ! 

(Both  rise.) 
Mary  Stewart.  The  hay  in  the  barn,  quick,  my  son. 

(Knocking  continues.) 
A  Voice.  Open  in  the  King's  name ! 

(Stewart  snatches  up  such  articles  as  would  reveal  his 
presence  and  hurries  into  barn.  He  overlooks  dirk  on 
floor.   The  old  woman  goes  towards  door.) 
Mary  Stewart.  Who  is  there?  What  do  you  want? 
A  Voice.  Open,  open. 

(Mary    Stewart   opens   door    and    Campbell    of 
KiLMHOR  follows    Captain    Sandeman  into    the 
house.  Behind  Kilmhor  comes  a  man  carrying  a 
leather  wallet,  James  Mackenzie,  his  clerk.    The 
rear  is  brought  up  by  soldiers  carrying  arms.) 
Sandeman.  Ha,  the  bird  has  flown. 
Campbell  {who  has  struck  dirk  with  his  foot  and  picked  it 
up).  But  the  nest  is  warm;  look  at  this. 

Sandeman.  It  seems  as  if  we  had  disturbed  him  at  sup- 
per. Search  the  house,  men. 

Mary  Stewart.    I'm  just  a  lonely  old  woman.    You 
have  been  misguided.  I  was  getting  through  my  supper. 
Campbell  {holding  up  dirk).  And  this  was  your  tooth- 


9a  CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR 

pick,  eh?   Na!   Na!   We  ken  whaur  we  are,  and  wha  we 
want,  and  by  Cruachan,  I  think  we've  got  hiin. 

{Sounds  are  heard  from  barn,  and  soldiers  return  with 
^loRAO.   She  has  stayed  in  hiding  from  fear,  and  she 
still  holds  the  cheese  in  her  hands.) 
Sandeman.  What  have  we  here? 
Campbell.  A  lass! 

Mary  Stewart.  It's  just  my  dead  brother's  daughter. 
She  was  getting  me  the  cheese,  as  you  can  see. 

Campbell.  On,  men,  again:  theother  turtle  doo  will  no' 
be  far  away.  {Bantcringly  to  the  old  wotnan)  Tut,  tut.  Mis- 
tress Stewart,  and  do  ye  have  her  wait  upon  ye  while  your 
leddyship  dines  alane!  A  grand  way  to  treat  your  dead 
brother's  daughter;  fie,  fie,  upon  ye! 

(Soldiers  reappear  icith  Stewart,  whose  arms  arc 
pinioned.) 
Campbell.  Did  I  no'  tell  ye!  And  this,  Mrs.  Stewart, 
will  be  your  dead  sister's  son,  I  'm  thinking;  or  aiblins  your 
leddyship's  butler!  Wcel,  woman,  I  Ml  toll  ye  this:  Pharaoh 
spared  ae  butler,  but  Erchie  Campbell  will  no' spare  anithor. 
Na!  na!  Pharaoh's  case  is  no'  to  be  taken  as  forming  ony 
preccedent.  And  so  if  he  doesna  answer  certain  questions 
we  have  to  speir  at  him,  before  morning  he'll  hang  as  high 
as  Ilaman. 

(Stew^vrt  is  placed  before  the  table  at  jrhich  Campbell 
has  seated  himself.     Two  soldiers  guard  Stewart. 
Another  is  behind  Campbell's  chair  and  another  is 
by  the  door.   The  clerk,  >L\ckexzie,  is  seated  at  up 
corner  of  table.  Sandeman  stands  by  the  fire.) 
Campbell  (to  Stewart).   Weel,  sir,  it  is  within  the  cog- 
nizance of  the  law   that  you   have   knowledge   and   in- 
formation of  the  place  of  harbor  and  concealment  used 
by  certain  persons  who  are  in  a  state  of  proscription. 
Furthermore,   it    is   known   that    four   days  ago  certain 


CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR  91 

other  proscribed  persons  did  join  with  these,  and  that  they 
are  banded  together  in  an  endeavor  to  secure  the  escape 
from  these  dominions  of  His  Majesty,  King  George,  of 
certain  persons  who  by  their  crimes  and  treasons  lie  open 
to  the  capital  charge.  What  say  ye? 

(Stewart  makes  no  reply.) 

Campbell.  Ye  admit  this  then? 

(Stewart  as  before.) 

Campbell.  Come,  come,  my  lad.  Ye  stand  in  great 
jeopardy.  Great  affairs  of  state  lie  behind  this  which  are 
beyond  your  simple  understanding.  Speak  up  and  it  will  be 
the  better  for  ye. 

(Stewart  silent  as  before.) 

Campbell.  Look  you.  I  '11  be  frank  with  you.  No  harm 
will  befall  you  this  night  —  and  I  wish  all  in  this  house  to 
note  my  words  —  no  harm  will  befall  you  this  night  if  you 
supply  the  information  required. 

(Stewart  as  before.) 

Campbell  (imth  sudden  passion).  Sandeman,  put  your 
sword  to  the  carcass  o'  this  muckle  ass  and  see  will  it  louse 
his  tongue. 

Stewart.  It  may  be  as  well  then,  Mr.  Campbell,  that  I 
should  say  a  word  to  save  your  breath.  It  is  this:  Till  you 
talk  Rannoch  Loch  to  the  top  of  Schiehallion,  ye  '11  no'  talk 
me  into  a  yea  or  nay. 

Campbell  (quietly).  Say  ye  so?  Noo,  I  widna  be  so  very 
sure  if  I  were  you.  I've  had  a  lairge  experience  o'  life,  and 
speaking  out  of  it  I  would  say  that  only  fools  and  the  dead 
never  change  their  minds. 

Stewart  (quietly  too).  Then  you'll  be  adding  to  your  ex- 
perience to-night,  Mr.  Campbell,  and  you'll  have  some- 
thing to  put  on  to  the  other  side  of  it. 

Campbell  (tapping  his  snuff-box).  Very  possibly,  young 
sir,  but  what  I  would  present  for  your  consideration  is  this: 


92  CAMPBELL  OF  KIL^mOR 

WTiilc  ye  may  be  prepared  to  keep  your  mouth  shut  under 
the  condition  of  a  fool,  are  ye  equally  prepared  to  do  so  in 
the  condition  of  a  dead  man? 

(Campbell  wails  expectantly.  Stewart  silent  as  before.) 

Cami'ijkll.  Tut,  tut,  now,  if  it's  afraid  ye  are,  my  lad. 
with  my  hand  on  my  heart  and  on  my  word  as  a  gentle- 
man — 

Stewart.  Afraid! 

{He  spits  in  contempt  towards  Campbell.) 

Campbell  (enraged).  Ye  damned  stubborn  Hicland  stot. 
(To  Sandeman)  Have  him  taken  out.  We'll  got  it 
another  way. 

(Campbell  rises.   Stewart  is    moved  into   barn    by 
soldiers.) 

Camphell  (walking).  Some  puling  eediots,  Sandeman, 
would  applaud  this  contumacy  and  call  it  constancy.  Con- 
stancy! Now,  I've  had  a  lairge  experience  o'  life,  and  I 
never  saw  yet  a  sensii)le  man  insensible  to  the  touch  of 
yellow  metal.  If  there  may  be  such  a  man,  it  is  demonstrable 
that  he  is  no  sensible  man.  Fideelity!  quotha,  it's  sheer 
obstinacy.  They  just  see  that  ye  want  .something  ot)t  o' 
tlicin,  and  they're  so  damned  selfish  and  thrawn  they 
winna  pairt.  And  with  the  natural  inabcolity  o'  their  brains 
to  hold  niair  than  one  idea  at  a  time  they  canna  see  that  in 
return  you  could  put  something  into  their  palms  far  more 
profitable.  (Sits  again  at  table.)  \\\rv\,  bring  Mistress 
Stewart  up. 

(Old  woman  is  placed  before  liini  where  son  had  been.) 

Campbell  (more  ingratiatingly).  Weel  noo.  Mistress 
Stewart,  good  woman,  this  is  a  sair  preileecament  for  ye  to 
be  in.  I  would  jist  counsel  ye  to  be  candid.  Doubtless  yer 
mind  is  a'  in  a  swirl.  Ye  kenna  what  way  to  turn.  Maybe 
ye  are  like  the  Psalmist  and  say:  "I  lookit  this  way  and 
that,  and  there  was  no  man  to  pecty  me.  or  to  have  com- 


CAMPBELL  OF  KILIVfflOR  93 

passion  upon  my  fatherless  children."  But,  see  now,  ye 
would  be  wrong;  and,  if  ye  tell  me  a'  ye  ken,  I'll  stand 
freends  wi'  ye.  Put  your  trust  in  Erchie  Campbell. 

Mary  Stewart.  I  trust  no  Campbell. 

Campbell.  Weel,  weel  noo,  I  'm  no'  jist  that  set  up  wi' 
them  myself.  There 's  but  ae  Campbell  that  I  care  muckle 
aboot,  after  a'.  But,  good  wife,  it's  no'  the  Campbells 
we're  trying  the  noo;  so  as  time  presses  we'll  jist  "hirze 
yonty"  as  they  say  themselves.  Noo  then,  speak  up. 

(jNLa.ry  Stewart  is  silent.) 

Campbell  (beginning  grimly  and  passing  through  aston- 
ishment, expostulation,  and  a  feigned  contempt  for  mother  and 
pity  for  son,  to  a  pretence  of  sadness  which,  except  at  the  end, 
makes  his  words  come  haltingly) .  Ah!  ye  also.  I  suppose  ye 
understand,  woman,  how  it  will  go  wi'  your  son?  (To  his 
clerk)  Here 's  a  fine  mother  for  ye,  James !  Would  you  be- 
lieve it.'^  She  kens  what  would  save  her  son  —  the  very 
babe  she  nursed  at  her  breast;  but  will  she  save  him?  Na! 
na!  Sir,  he  may  look  after  himself!  A  mother,  a  mother! 
Ha!  ha! 

(Campbell  laughs.  INL^ckenzie  titters  foolishly.  Camp- 
bell pauses  to  watch  effect  of  his  words.) 

Aye,  you  would  think,  James,  that  she  would  remember 
the  time  when  he  was  but  little  and  afraid  of  all  the  terrors 
that  walk  in  darkness,  and  how  he  looked  up  to  her  as  to  a 
tower  of  safety,  and  would  run  to  her  with  outstretched 
hands,  hiding  his  face  from  his  fear,  in  her  gown.  The  dark- 
ness !  It  is  the  dark  night  and  a  long  journey  before  him  now. 

{He  pauses  again.) 

You  would  think,  James,  that  she  would  mind  how  she 
happit  him  from  the  cold  of  winter  and  sheltered  him  from 
the  summer  heats,  and,  when  he  began  to  find  his  footing, 
how  she  had  an  eye  on  a'  the  beasts  of  the  field  and  on  the 
water  and  the  fire  that  were  become  her  enemies  —  And  to 


94  CAMPBELL  OF  KLLMHOR 

what  purpose  all  this  care?  —  tell  me  that,  my  man,  to 
what  good,  if  she  is  to  leave  him  at  the  last  to  dangle  from  a 
tree  at  the  end  of  a  hempen  roi)e  —  to  see  his  flesh  given  to 
be  meat  for  the  fowls  of  the  air  —  her  son,  her  little  son ! 

^L\RY  Stewart,  My  son  is  guilty  of  no  crime! 

Campbell.  Is  he  no'!  Wccl,  mistress,  as  ye '11  no'  take 
my  word  for  it,  maybe  ye '11  list  to  Mr.  Mackenzie  here. 
What  say  ye,  James? 

^L\CKENZiE.  He  is  guilty  of  aiding  and  abetting  in  the 
concealment  of  proscribed  persons;  likewise  with  being 
found  in  the  possession  of  arms,  contrary  to  statute,  both 
very  heinous  crimes. 

Campbell.  Very  well  said,  James!  Forby,  between  our- 
selves, Mrs.  Stewart,  the  young  man  in  my  o{)eenion  is 
guilty  of  another  crime  (snujfs)  —  he  is  guilty  of  the  hei- 
nous crime  of  not  knowing  on  wiiich  side  his  bread  is 
buttered.  —  (^ome  now  — 

^L\RY  Stewart.  Yo  durst  not  lay  a  finger  on  the  lad,  ye 
durst  not  hang  him. 

Mackenzie.  And  why  should  the  gentleman  not  hang 
him  if  it  pleesure  him.' 

(Campbell  taps  snuff-box  and  takes  pinch.) 

Mary  Stewart  (irith  intcnsiti/).  Carnj)l)ell  of  Kilinlior, 
lay  but  one  finger  on  Dugald  Stewart  and  the  weight  of  Ben 
Cruachan  will  be  light  to  the  weight  that  will  be  laid  on 
your  soul.  I  will  lay  the  curse  of  the  sc\  on  rings  upon  your 
life:  I  will  call  up  the  fires  of  Kphron,  the  i>lue  and  the  green 
and  the  gray  fires,  for  the  destruction  of  your  soul:  I  will 
curse  you  in  your  hoiuostead  and  in  the  wife  it  .shelters  and 
in  the  children  that  will  never  bear  your  name.  Yea,  and  ye 
shall  be  cursed. 

Campbell.  (Startled  —  betrays  agitation  —  the  snuff  is 
spilled  from  his  trembling  liand.)  Hoot  toot,  woman  I  ye  're, 
ye 're  —  {Angrily)  \c  auld  beldame,  to  say  such  things 


CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR  95 

to  me!  I'll  have  ye  first  whippet  and  syne  droont  for  a 
witch.  Damn  thae  stubborn  and  supersteetious  cattle! 
( To  Sandeman)  We  should  have  come  in  here  before  him 
and  listened  in  the  barn,  Sandeman ! 

Sandeman.  Ah,  listen  behind  the  door  you  mean !  Now 
I  never  thought  of  that ! 

Campbell.  Did  ye  not !  Humph !  Well,  no  doubt  there 
are  a  good  many  things  in  the  universe  that  yet  wait  for 
your  thought  upon  them.  What  would  be  your  objections, 
now? 

Sandeman.  There  are  two  objections,  Kilmhor,  that  you 
would  understand. 

Campbell.  Name  them. 

Sandeman.  Well,  in  the  first  place,  we  have  not  wings 
like  crows  to  fly  ■ — ■  and  the  footsteps  on  the  snow  — ■  Second 
point  —  the  woman  would  have  told  him  we  were  there. 

Campbell.  Not  if  I  told  her  I  had  power  to  clap  her  in 
Inverness  jail. 

Mary  Stewart  {in  contempt).  Yes,  even  if  ye  had  told 
me  ye  had  power  to  clap  me  in  hell,  Mr.  Campbell. 

Campbell.  Lift  me  that  screeching  Jezebel  oot  o'  here; 
Sandeman,  we'll  mak'  a  quick  finish  o'  this.  (Soldiers  take 
her  towards  barn.)  No,  not  there;  pitch  the  old  girzie  into 
the  snow. 

Mary  Stewart.  Ye  '11  never  find  him,  Campbell,  never, 
never ! 

Campbell  (enraged).  Find  him!  Aye,  by  God  I'll  find 
him,  if  I  have  to  keek  under  every  stone  on  the  mountains 
from  the  Boar  of  Badenoch  to  the  Sow  of  Athole.  (Old 
woman  and  soldiers  go  outside.)  And  now.  Captain  Sande- 
man, you  an'  me  must  have  a  word  or  two.  I  noted  your 
objection  to  listening  ahint  doors  and  so  on.  Now,  I  make 
a'  necessary  allowances  for  youth  and  the  grand  and  mag- 
neeficent  ideas  commonly  held,  for  a  little  while,  in  that 


96  CAMPBELL  OF  KIL^mOR 

period.  I  had  tlieni  myself.  But,  man,  gin  ye  had  trod  the 
floor  of  the  Parliament  Iloose  in  Edinburry  as  long  as  I  did, 
\\V  a  pair  o'  thin  hands  at  the  bottom  o'  toom  pockets,  ye'd 
ha'e  shed  your  fine  notions,  as  I  did.  Noo,  fine  pernickety 
noansense  will  no'  do  in  this  business  — 

Sandp:man.  Sir! 

C.wiPBELL.  Softly,  softly,  Captain  Sandeman,  and  hear 
till  what  I  have  to  say.  I  have  noticed  with  regret  several 
things  in  your  remarks  and  bearing  which  are  displeasing  to 
me.  I  would  say  just  one  word  in  your  ear;  it  is  this.  These 
things,  Sandeman,  are  not  conducive  to  advancement  in 
His  Majesty's  service. 

Sandeman.  Kilmhor,  I  am  a  soldier,  and  if  I  speak  out 
my  mind,  you  must  pardon  me  if  my  words  are  blunt.  I  do 
n(jt  like  this  work,  but  I  loathe  your  methods. 

Campbell.  IMislike  the  methods  you  may,  but  the  work 
ye  must  do!  ^lethods  are  my  business.  Let  me  tell  you 
the  true  position.  In  ae  word  it  is  no  more  and  no  less  than 
this.  You  and  me  are  baith  here  to  carry  out  the  provec- 
sions  of  the  Act  for  the  Pacification  of  the  Highlands.  That 
means  the  cleaning  up  of  a  very  big  mess,  Sandeman,  a  very 
big  mess.  Now,  what  is  your  special  office  in  this  work? 
1  11  tell  ye,  man;  you  and  your  men  are  just  beesoms  in  the 
hands  of  the  law-oiHcers  of  the  Crown.  In  this  district,  I 
order  and  ye  soop!  (He  indicates  door  of  barn.)  Now  soop. 
Captain  Sandeman. 

Sandeman  {in  some  agitation),  ^^^lat  is  your  purpose? 
Wiiat  are  you  after?  I  would  give  something  to  see  into 
your  mind. 

Camimiell.  Ne'er  fash  aboot  my  mind:  what  has  a  sol- 
dier to  do  with  ony  mental  operations?  It's  His  Grace's 
orders  that  concern  you.  Out  wi'  your  man  and  set  him  up 
against  the  wa'. 

Sandelman.   Kilmhor,  it  is  murder — munler,  Kilmiior! 


'         CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR  97 

Campbell.  Hoots,  awa',  man,  it 's  a  thing  o'  nae  special 
signeeficance. 

Sandeman.  I  must  ask  you  for  a  warrant. 

Campbell.  Quick  then :  Mackenzie  will  bring  it  out  to 
you. 

(Clerk  begins  ivriting.  Sandeman  and  soldiers  lead 
Stewart  outside.  Campbell  sits  till  they  are  out. 
Clerk  finishes,  Campbell  signs  warrant  —  a7id 
former  goes.  Campbell  is  alone,  save  for  Morag 
Cameron,  who  is  sitting  huddled  up  on  stool  by  fire, 
and  is  unnoticed  by  Campbell.) 

Campbell  (as  one  speaking  his  thoughts  aloud) .  I ' ve  been 
beaten  for  a'  that.  A  strange  thing,  noo.  Beforehand  I 
would  ha'e  said  naething  could  be  easier.  And  yet  — 
and  yet  —  there  it  is !  ...  It  would  have  been  a  grand 
stroke  for  me  .  .  .  Cluny  —  Keppoch  —  Lochiel,  and 
maybe  .  .  .  maybe  —  Hell!  when  I  think  of  it!  Just  a 
whispered  word  —  a  mere  pointed  finger  would  ha'e  telled 
a'.  But  no!  their  visions,  their  dreams  beat  me.  "You'll 
be  adding  to  your  experience  to-night,  Mr.  Campbell, 
and  have  something  to  put  to  the  other  side  of  it," 
says  he;  aye,  and  by  God  I  have  added  something  to  it, 
and  it  is  a  thing  I  like  but  little  —  that  a  dream  can  be 
stronger  than  a  strong  man  armed.  —  Here  come  I, 
Archibald  Campbell  of  Kilmlior,  invested  with  authority 
as  law-ofBcer  of  the  Crown,  bearing  in  my  hand  the  power 
of  life  and  death,  fire  and  the  sword,  backed  up  by  the  visi- 
ble authority  of  armed  men,  and  yet  I  am  powerless  before 
the  dreams  of  an  old  woman  and  a  half -grown  lad  —  sol- 
diers and  horses  and  the  gallows  and  yellow  gold  are  less 
than  the  wind  blowing  in  their  faces.  —  It  is  a  strange 
thing  that:  it  is  a  thing  I  do  not  understand. —  It  is  a 
thing  fit  to  sicken  a  man  against  the  notion  that  there  are 
probabeelities  on  this  earth.  —  I  have  been  beaten  for  a' 

8 


98  CAMPBELL  OF  K^L^^IOR 

that.  Aye,  the  pair  o'  them  have  beat  me  —  though  it 's  a 
matter  of  seconds  till  one  of  them  be  dead. 

MoRAG  (starting  into  upright  position  and  staring  at  him; 
her  voice  is  like  an  echo  to  his) .  Dead ! 

Campbell  (turning  hastily).  \Miat  is  that! 

MoRAG.  Is  he  dead? 

Campbell  (grimly).  Not  yet,  but  if  ye '11  look  through 
this  window  (he  indicates  icindoit)  presently,  ye '11  see  him 
gotten  ready  for  death. 

(He  begins  to  collect  articles  of  personal  property,  hat, 
etc.) 

MoRAG.  I  will  tell  you. 

Campbell  (astounded).  WTiat! 

MoR.\G.  I  will  tell  you  all  you  are  seeking  to  know. 

Campbell  (quietly).  Good  God,  and  to  think,  to  think 
I  was  on  the  very  act  —  in  the  very  act  of  —  tell  me  —  tell 
me  at  once. 

MoRAG.  You  will  promise  that  he  will  not  be  hanged? 

Campbell.  He  will  not.  I  swear  it. 

MoRAG.  You  will  give  him  back  to  me? 

Campbell.  I  will  give  him  back  unhung. 

MoRAG.  Then  (Campbell  comes  near),  in  a  corrie  half- 
way up  the  far  side  of  Dearig  —  God  save  me! 

Campbell.  Dished  after  a'.  I've  clean  dished  them! 
Loard,  Loard!  once  more  I  can  believe  in  the  rationality  of 
Thy  world.  (Gathers  up  again  his  cloak,  hat,  etc.)  And  to 
think  —  to  think  —  I  was  on  the  very  act  of  going  away 
like  a  beaten  dog! 

]MoR.\G.  He  is  safe  from  hanging  now? 

Campbell  (chuckle.'i  and  looks  out  at  irindow  before  reply- 
ing, and  w  at  door  ivhen  he  speaks).  Very  near  it,  very 
near  it.  Listen! 

(He  holds  up  his  hand  —  a  volley  of  musketry  is  heard. 
KiLMHOR  goes  out,  closing  the  door  behind  hitn.  After 


CAMPBELL  OF  KILMHOR  99 

a  short  interval  of  silence  the  old  woman  enters  and 
advances  a  few  steps.) 

Mary  Stewart.  Did  you  hear,  Morag  Cameron,  did 
you  hear? 

(The  girl  is  sobbing,  her  head  on  her  arms.) 

Mary  Stewart.  Och!  be  quiet  now;  I  would  be  hsten- 
ing  till  the  last  sound  of  it  passes  into  the  great  hills  and 
over  all  the  wide  world.  —  It  is  fitting  for  you  to  be  cry; 
ing,  a  child  that  cannot  understand;  but  water  shall  never 
wet  eye  of  mine  for  Dugald  Stewart.  Last  night  I  was  but 
the  mother  of  a  lad  that  herded  sheep  on  the  Athole  hills: 
this  morn  it  is  I  that  am  the  mother  of  a  man  who  is  among 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth.  All  over  the  land  they  will  be 
telling  of  Dugald  Stewart.  Mothers  will  teach  their  child- 
ren to  be  men  by  him.  High  will  his  name  be  with  the  teller 
of  fine  tales.  —  The  great  men  came,  they  came  in  their 
pride,  terrible  like  the  storm  they  were,  and  cunning  with 
words  of  guile  were  they.  Death  was  with  them.  ...  He 
was  but  a  lad,  a  young  lad,  with  great  length  of  days  before 
him,  and  the  grandeur  of  the  world.  But  he  put  it  all  from 
him.  "  Speak, "  said  they,  "  speak,  and  life  and  great  riches 
will  be  for  yourself ."  But  he  said  no  word  at  all!  Loud  was 
the  swelling  of  their  wrath!  Let  the  heart  of  you  rejoice, 
Morag  Cameron,  for  the  snow  is  red  with  his  blood.  There 
are  things  greater  than  death.  Let  them  that  are  children 
shed  the  tears. 

(She  comes  forward  and  lays  her  hand  on  the  girVs 
shoulder.) 

Mary  Stewart.  Let  us  go  and  lift  him  into  the  house, 
and  not  be  leaving  him  lie  out  there  alone. 

[Curtain] 


THE  SUx\' 

JOHN  GAI^WORTIIY 

SCENE:  A  Girl  sits  crouched  over  her  knees  on  a  stile  close  in 
a  river.  A  Man  with  a  silrer  badge  stands  beside  her 
clutching  the  xcom  top  plank.  The  Girl's leiel  brows  are 
drawn  together;  her  eyes  see  her  memories.  Tue  Man's 
eyes  see  The  Girl;  he  has  a  dark,  twisted  face.  The 
bright  sim  shines;  the  quiet  river  flows;  the  cuckoo  is 
calling;  the  mayflowcr  is  in  bloom  along  the  hedge  that 
ends  in  the  stile  on  the  towing-path. 

The  Girl.  God  knows  what  'c  "11  say,  ,Iiin. 

The  Man.  Ix^t  Mm.  'E's  come  too  late,  that 's  all. 

The  Girl.  lie  couldn't  come  before.    I'm  friuhtoncd. 
*E  was  fond  o'  me. 

The  Man.  And  are  n't  I  fond  of  you?  My  Gawd ! 

The  Giul.  I  out^ht  to  'a'  waited,  Jim;  with  'im  in  the 
flphtin'. 

The  Man-  (passionately).  And  what  ahout  me.'  .Vre  n't 
I  heen  in  the  fightin'  —  earned  all  I  could  k-el.' 

The  Girl  (touching  him).   Ah! 

The  M.\n.  Did  you  — 

(lie  cannot  .'^pcak  the  words.) 

Tmio  (iiuL.  Not  like  you.  Jim  —  not  like  you. 

The  Man.  'Ave  a  spirit,  then. 

'  i'Voin  Scrilmcr's  Magazinr,  .Muy.  1010.    CopyriK'Iil  liy  Clmrlos  .Scril>- 
ucr's  Sons;  included  hy  spcnal  porini.ssion  of  llic  writer  and  publishers. 


THE  SUN  101 

The  Girl.  I  promised  'im. 

The  ]VIan.  One  man's  luck's  another's  poison.  I'v©- 
seen  it. 

The  Girl.  I  ought  to  'a' waited.  I  never  thought  'e'd 
come  back  from  the  fightin'. 

The  Man  (grimly).   Maybe  'e'd  better  not  'ave. 

The  Girl  {looking  back  along  the  toiv-path).  TMiat'll  'e 
be  Kke,  I  wonder? 

The  Man  {gripping  her   shoulder).    Daise,  don't  you 
never  go  back  on  me,  or  I  should  kill  you,  and  'im  too. 
(The  Girl  looks  at  him,  shivers,  and  puts  her  lips  to  his.) 

The  Girl.  I  never  could. 

The  Man.  Will  you  run  for  it?  'E  'd  never  find  us. 

(The  Girl  shakes  her  head.) 

The  Man  {dully).  What's  the  good  o'  stayin'?  The 
world's  wide. 

The  Girl.  I  'd  rather  have  it  off  me  mind,  with  him 
'ome. 

The  Man  {clenching  his  hands).  It's  temptin'  Provi- 
dence. 

The  Girl.  What's  the  time,  Jim? 

The  Man  {glancing  at  the  sim).  'Alf  past  four. 

The  Girl  {looking  along  the  towing-path).  'E  said  four 
o'clock.  Jim,  you  better  go. 

The  Man.  Not  I.  I've  not  got  the  wind  up.  I've  seen 
as  much  of  hell  as  he  has,  any  day.  What  like  is  he? 

The  Girl  {dully).  I  dunno,  just.  I've  not  seen  'im  these 
three  years.  I  dunno  no  more,  since  I've  known  you. 

The  Man.  Big,  or  little  chap? 

The  Girl.  'Bout  your  size.  Oh!  Jim,  go  along! 

The  Man.  No  fear!  WTiat's  a  bhghter  Uke  that  to  old 
Fritz's  shells?  We  did  n't  shift  when  they  was  comin'.  If 
you'll  go,  I'll  go;  not  else. 

{Again  she  shakes  her  head.) 


102  THE  SUN 

The  Girl.  Jim,  do  you  love  me  true?  (For  ansicer. 
The  Max  takes  her  avidly  in  his  arms.)  I  ain't  ashamed  — 
I  ain't  ashamed.  If  'e  could  see  me  'eart. 

The  Man.  Daise!  If  I'd  known  you  out  there  I  never 
could  'a'  stuck  it.  They'd  'a'  got  me  for  a  deserter.  That 's 
'ow  I  love  you ! 

The  Girl.  Jim,  don't  lift  your  'and  to  'im.   Promise! 

The  ]VL\n.  That's  according. 

The  Girl.  Promise! 

The  Man.  If  'e  keeps  quiet,  I  won't.  But  I'm  not  ac- 
countable —  not  always,  I  tell  you  straight  —  not  since 
I  've  been  through  that. 

The  Girl  (unih  a  shiver).  Nor  p'r'aps  'e  is  n't. 

The  Max.  Like  as  not.  It  takes  the  lynchpins  out,  I 
lell  you. 

The  Girl.  God  'elp  us! 

The  Max  (grimh/).  Ah!  We  said  that  a  bit  too  often. 
\\  hat  we  want,  we  take,  now;  there's  no  one  to  give  it  us, 
and  there's  no  fear '11  stop  us;  we  seen  the  bottom  o*  things. 

The  Girl.  P'r'aps  'e'll  say  that  too. 

The  Man.  Then  it'll  be  'im  or  me. 

The  Giul.  I'm  frightened. 

The  Man  {tendcrhj).  No.  Daise,  no!  (lie  takes  out  a 
knife.)  The  river's  'andy.  One  more  or  less.  'K  shan't 
'arm  you;  nor  me  neither. 

The  Girl  (seizing  his  hand).  Oh!  no!  Give  it  to  me. 
Jim! 

The  Man  (smiling).  No  fear!  (He  puts  it  away.)  Shan't 
'ave  no  need  for  it,  like  as  not.  -Ml  right,  little  Daise;  you 
can't  be  expected  to  see  things  like  what  we  do.  What 's  a 
life,  anyway?  I've  seen  a  thousjind  taken  in  five  minutes. 
I've  se<*n  dead  men  on  the  wires  like  flies  on  a  fly-paper; 
I've  been  as  good  as  dead  mes«'lf  an  'undred  times.  I've 
killed  a  dozen  men.    It's  nothin'.    'E's  safe,  if  'e  don't  get 


THE  SUN  103 

my  blood  up.  If  'e  does,  nobody's  safe;  not  'im,  nor  any- 
body else;  not  even  you.  I'm  speakin'  sober. 

The  GmL  (softly).  Jim,  you  won't  go  fightin',  wi'  the 
sun  out  and  the  birds  all  callin'? 

The  Man.  That  depends  on  'im.  I  'm  not  lookin'  for  it. 
Daise,  I  love  you.  I  love  your  eyes.  I  love  your  hair.  Hove 
you. 

The  Girl.  And  I  love  you,  Jim.   I  don't  want  nothin' 
more  than  you  in  the  whole  world. 
The  Man.  Amen  to  that,  my  dear.  Kiss  me  close! 
(The  sound  of  a  voice  singing  breaks  in  on  their  embrace. 
The  Girl  starts  from  his  arms  and  looks  behind  her 
along  the  toioing-path.  The  Man  draws  back  against 
the  hedge,  fingering  his  side,  where  the  knife  is  hidden. 
The  song  comes  nearer.) 

I  '11  be  right  there  to-night 
Where  the  fields  are  snowy  white; 
Banjos  ringin',  darkies  singin'  — 
All  the  world  seems  bright. 

The  Girl.  It's'im! 

The  Man.  Don't  get  the  wind  up,  Daise.  I  'm  here ! 
(The  singing  stops.  A  man's  voice  says:  Christ!  It's 
Daise;  it's  little  Daise  'erself!   The  Girl  stands 
rigid.  The  figure  of  a  soldier  appears  on  the  other  side 
^of  the  stile.  His  cap  is  tucked  into  his  belt,  his  hair  is 
bright  in  the  sunshine;  he  is  lean,  wasted,  brown,  and 
laughing.) 
Soldier.  Daise!  Daise!  Hallo,  old  pretty  girl! 

(The  Girl  does  not  move,  barring  the  way,  as  it  were.) 

The  Girl.  Hallo,  Jack!  (Softly)  I  got  things  to  tell  you. 

Soldier.  What  sort  o'  things,  this  lovely  day?  Why,  I 

got  things  that  'd  take  me  years  to  tell.  'Ave  you  missed  me, 

Daise? 


104  THE  SUN 

The  Girl.  You  been  so  long. 

Soldier.  So  I  'ave.  ^ly  Gawd!  It's  a  way  they  'ave  in 
the  Army.  I  said  when  I  got  out  of  it  I'd  huigh.  Like  as 
the  sun  itself  I  used  to  think  of  you,  Daise,  when  the 
crumps  was  comin'  over,  and  the  wind  was  up.  D'  you  re- 
member that  last  night  in  the  wood?  "Come  back,  and 
marry  me  quick.  Jack!"  Well,  'ere  I  am  —  got  me  pass  to 
'eaven.  No  more  fightin',  an'  trampin,'  no  more  sleepin' 
rough.  We  can  get  married  now,  Daise.  We  can  live  soft 
an'  'appy.  Give  us  a  kiss,  old  pretty. 

The  Girl  (drairing  hack).   No. 

Soldier  (blankly).  Why  not? 

(The  Man,  with  a  swift  movement,  steps  along  the  hedge 
to  The  Girl's  side.) 

The  Man.  That 's  why,  soldier. 

Soldier  (leaping  over  the  stile).  'Oo  are  you,  Pompey? 
The  sun  don't  shine  in  your  insitlc,  do  it?  'Oo  is  'e, 
Daise? 

The  Girl.  My  man. 

Soldier.  Your — man!  Lummy!  "TafTy  was  a  Welsh- 
man, Taffy  was  a  thief"!  Well,  soldier?  So  you've  been 
through  it,  too.  I'm  laughin'  this  mornin',  as  luck  will  'ave 
it.   Ah!  I  can  see  your  knife. 

The  Man  (ivho  has  half  drawn  his  knife).  Don't  laugh 
at  m£,  I  tell  you. 

Soldier.  Not  at  you,  soldier,  not  at  you.  (//<•  look.ffrom 
one  to  the  other.)  I'm  laughin'  at  things  in  general.  Where 
did  you  get  it,  soldier? 

The  Man  (wntchfiiUji).  Through  the  hiiig. 

Soldier.  Think  o' that!  .\n' I  never  was  touched.  Four 
years  an'  never  was  touched.  An'  so  you've  come  an'  took 
my  girl.  Nothin' doin'!  Ha!  (Again  he  looks  from  one  to  the 
other  —  then  away.)  Woll!  The  worlil's  before  me.  (lie 
laughs.)  I  '11  give  you  Daise  for  a  lung  protector. 


THE  SUN  105 

The  IVIan  {fiercely) .  You  won't.  I  Ve  took  her. 

Soldier.  That's  all  right,  then.  You  keep 'er.  I've  got 
a  laugh  in  me  you  can't  put  out,  black  as  you  are !  Good- 
bye, little  Daise! 

(The  Girl  makes  a  movement  toward  him.) 

The  Man.  Don't  touch  'im! 

(The  Girl  stands  hesitating,  and  suddenly  bursts  into 
tears.) 

Soldier.  Look  'ere,  soldier;  shake  'ands!  I  don't  want 
to  see  a  girl  cry,  this  day  of  all,  with  the  sun  shinin'.  I 
seen  too  much  o'  sorrer.  You  an'  me  've  been  at  the  back 
of  it.  We 've 'ad  our  whack.  Shake! 

The  Man.  Who  areyou  kiddin'?  Fou  never  loved 'er! 

Soldier.  Oh!  I  thought  I  did. 

The  Man  (fiercely) .  I  '11  fight  you  for  her. 

(He  drops  his  knife.) 

Soldier  (slowly).  Soldier,  you  done  your  bit,  an'  I  done 
mine.  It 's  took  us  two  ways,  seemin'ly. 

The  Girl  (pleading).    Jim! 

The  IVIan  (vnth  clenched  fists) .  I  don't  want  'is  charity. 
I  only  want  what  I  can  take. 

Soldier.  Daise,  which  of  us  will  you  'ave? 

The  Girl  (covering  her  face) .  Oh !  Him. 

Soldier.  You  see,  soldier!  Drop  your  'ands,  now. 
There 's  nothin'  for  it  but  a  laugh.  You  an'  me  know  that. 
Laugh,  soldier! 

The  Man.  You  blarsted  — 

(The  Girl  springs  to  him  and  stops  his  mouth.) 

Soldier.  It's  no  use,  soldier.  I  can't  do  it.  I  said  I'd 
laugh  to-day,  and  laugh  I  will.  I've  come  through  that, 
an'  all  the  stink  of  it;  I've  come  through  sorrer.  Never 
again!  Cheer-o,  mate!  The  sun's  shinin'! 

(He  turns  away.) 

The  Girl.  Jack,  don't  think  too  'ard  of  me ! 


106  THE  SUN 

Soldier  {looking  back).    No  fear,  old  pretty  girl!    En- 
joy your  fancy!  So  long!  Gawd  bless  you  both ! 

{He  sings  and  goes  along  the  path,  and  the  song  — 

I  'II  be  right  there  to-night 
\\'hore  the  6cl(b  are  snowy  white; 
Banjos  ringin',  darkies  singin'  — 
All  the  world  S'^eins  bright!  — 

fades  away.) 
The  Man.  'E'smad. 

The  Girl  {looking  down  the  path,  with  her  hands  clasped). 
The  sun  'as  touched  'ira,  Jim! 


Curtain  ] 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS^ 

LOUISE  SAUNDERS 

CHARACTERS 

The  Manager 
Blue  Hose 
Yellow  Hose 
1st  Herald 
2d  Herald 

POMPDEBILE  THE  ElGHTH,  KiNG  OF  HeARTS 

(pronounced  Pomp-c/rbiley) 
The  Chancellor 
The  Knave  of  Hearts 
Ursula 

The  Lady  Violetta 
Sex  Little  Pages 

(The  INIanager  appears  before  the  curtain  in  doublet 
and  hose.  He  carries  a  cap  with  a  long,  red  feather.) 
The  Manager  (bowing  deeply).  Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
you  are  about  to  hear  the  truth  of  an  old  legend  that  has 
persisted  wrongly  through  the  ages,  the  truth  that,  until 
now,  has  been  hid  behind  the  embroidered  curtain  of  a 
rhyme,  about  the  Knave  of  Hearts,  who  was  no  knave  but 
a  very  hero  indeed.   The  truth,  you  will  agree  with  me, 

1  This  play  is  fully  protected  by  copjTight  and  may  be  used  only  with 
the  written  permission  of,  and  the  payment  of  royalty  to,  Norman  Lee 
Swartout,  Simmiit,  New  Jersey.  Included  by  permission  of  the  author 
and  Mr.  Swartout. 


108  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

gentlemen  and  most  honored  ladies,  is  rare!  It  is  only  the 
quiet,  unimpassioned  things  of  nature  that  seem  what  they 
are.  Clouds  rolled  in  massy  radiance  against  the  blue, 
pines  shadowed  deep  and  darkly  green,  mirrored  in  still 
waters,  the  contemplative  mystery  of  the  hills  —  these 
things  which  exist,  absorbed  but  in  their  own  existence  — 
these  are  the  perfect  chalices  of  truth. 

But  we,  gentlemen  and  thrice-honored  ladies,  flounder 
about  in  a  tangled  net  of  prejudice,  of  intrigue.  We  are 
blinded  by  conventions,  we  are  crushed  by  misunderstand- 
ing, we  are  distracted  by  violence,  we  are  deceived  by  hy- 
pocrisy, until  only  too  often  villains  receive  the  rewards  of 
nobility  and  the  truly  great-hearted  are  suspected,  dis- 
trusted, and  maligned. 

And  so,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  for  the  sake  of  justice  and 
also,  I  dare  to  hope,  for  your  approval,  I  have  taken  my 
puppets  down  from  their  dusty  shelves.  I  have  polished 
their  faces,  brushed  their  clothes,  and  strung  them  on  wires, 
so  that  they  may  enact  for  you  this  history. 

{He  purls  the  curtains,  revealing  two  Pastry  Cooks  in 

flaring  ichite  caps  and  spotless  aprons  leaning  over  in 

stiff  profile,  their  wooden  spoons,  three  feet  long, 

pointing  rigidhj  to  the  ceiling.    They  are  in  one  of  the 

kitchens   of  Pompdebile  the   Eighth,   King   of 

Hearts.   //  is  a  pleasant  kitchen,  tcith  a  row  of  little 

dormer  irindows  and  a  huge  stove,  adorned  with  the 

crest  of  PoMPDEiiiLE  —  a  heart  rampant,  on  a  gold 

shield.) 

The  Manager.  You  see  here,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 

two  pastry  cooks  belonging  to  the  royal  household  of 

Pompdebile  the  Eighth  —  Blue  Hose  and  Yellow  Hose,  by 

name.  At  a  signal  from  me  they  will  spring  to  action,  and 

as  they  have  been  made  with  astonishing  cleverness,  they 

will  bear  every  semblance  of  life.    Hapjiily.  however,  you 

need  have  no  fear  that,  should  they  please  you, the  exulting 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  109 

wine  of  your  appreciation  may  go  to  their  heads  —  their 
heads  being  but  things  of  wire  and  wood ;  and  happily,  too, 
as  they  are  but  wood  and  wire,  they  will  be  spared  the 
shame  and  humiliation  that  would  otherwise  be  theirs 
should  they  fail  to  meet  with  your  approval. 

The  play,  most  honored  ladies  and  gentlemen,  will  now 
begin. 

{He  claps  his  hands.  Instantly  the  two  Pastry  Cooks 
co7ne  to  life.  The  Manager  bows  himself  off  the 
stage.) 

Blue  Hose.  Is  everything  ready  for  this  great  event? 

Yellow  Hose.  Everything.  The  fire  blazing  in  the 
stove,  the  Pages,  dressed  in  their  best,  waiting  in  the  pantry 
with  their  various  jars  full  of  the  finest  butter,  the  sweet- 
est sugar,  the  hottest  pepper,  the  richest  milk,  the  — 

Blue  Hose.  Yes,  yes,  no  doubt.  (Thoughtfully)  It  is 
a  great  responsibility,  this  that  they  have  put  on  our 
shoulders. 

Yellow  Hose.  Ah,  yes.  I  have  never  felt  more  impor- 
tant. 

Blue  Hose.  Nor  I  more  uncomfortable. 

Yellow  Hose.  Even  on  the  day,  or  rather  the  night, 
when  I  awoke  and  found  myself  famous  —  I  refer  to  the 
time  when  I  laid  before  an  astonished  world  my  creation, 
"Humming  birds'  hearts  souffle,  au  vin  blanc"  —  I  did 
not  feel  more  important.  It  is  a  pleasing  sensation! 

Blue  Hose.  I  like  it  not  at  all.  It  makes  me  dizzy,  this 
eminence  on  which  they  have  placed  us.  The  Lady  Violetta 
is  slim  and  fair.  She  does  not,  in  my  opinion,  look  like  the 
kind  of  person  who  is  capable  of  making  good  pastry.  I 
have  discovered  through  long  experience  that  it  is  the  heav- 
iest women  who  make  the  lightest  pastry,  and  vice  versa. 
Well,  then,  suppose  that  she  does  not  pass  this  examination 
—  suppose  that  her  pastry  is  lumpy,  white  like  the  skin  of  a 
boiled  fowl. 


no  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

Yellow  Hose,  Then,  according  to  the  law  of  the  King- 
dom of  Hearts,  we  must  condemn  it,  and  the  Lady  Violetta 
cannot  become  the  bride  of  Pompdebile.  Back  to  her  native 
land  she  will  be  sent,  riding  a  mule. 

Blue  Hose.  And  she  is  so  pretty,  so  exquisite!  \Miat  a 
law!   What  an  outrageous  law! 

'  Yellow  Hose.  Outrageous  law !  How  dare  you!  There 
is  nothing  so  necessary  to  the  welfare  of  the  nation  as  our 
art.  Good  cooks  make  good  tempers,  don't  they.'  Must 
not  the  queen  set  an  example  for  the  other  women  to  fol- 
low? Did  not  our  fathers  and  our  grandfathers  before  us 
judge  the  dishes  of  the  previous  queens  of  hearts? 

Blue  Hose.  I  wish  I  were  mixing  the  rolls  for  to-mor- 
row's breakfast. 

Yellow  Hose.  Bah!  You  are  fit  for  nothing  else.  The 
affairs  of  state  are  beyond  you. 

(Distant  sound  of  trumpets.) 

Blue  Hose  (nervously).   What's  that? 

Yellow  Hose.  The  King  is  approaching!  The  cere- 
monies are  about  to  commence! 

Blue  Hose.  Is  evcrj-thing  ready? 

Yellow  Hose.  I  told  you  that  everything  was  ready. 
Stand  still;  you  are  as  white  as  a  stalk  of  celery. 
'    Blue  Hose  (counting  on  his  fingers).   Apples,  lemons, 
peaches,  jam  —  Jam!   Did  you  forget  jam? 

Yellow  Hose.  Zounds,  I  did! 

Blue  Hose  (trailing).  We  are  lost! 

Yellow  Hose.  She  may  not  call  for  it. 

(Both  stand  very  erect  and  make  a  desperate  effort  to  ap- 
pear calm.) 

"RlxjeHohk  (very  nervous).  "VMiich  door?  ^\'hich  door? 

Yellow  Hose.  The  big  one,  idiot.  Be  still! 

(The  sound  of  trumpets  increases,  and  cries  of  ''Make 
way  for  the  King.''  Two  Heralds  come  in  arul  stand 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  111 

on  either  side  of  the  door.    The  King  of  Hearts  enters, 

followed  by  ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  court.   Pomp- 

DEBiLE  is  in  full  regalia,  and  very  imposing  indeed 

ivith  his  red  robe  bordered  with  ermine,  his  crown  and 

sceptre.     After  him  comes  the  Chancellor,  an  old 

man  vnth  a  short,  white  beard.    The  King  strides  in  a 

particularly  kingly  fashion,  pointing  his  toes  in  the 

air  at  every  step,  toward  his  throne,  and  sits  down. 

The  Knave  walks  behind  him  slowly.  He  has  a  sharp, 

pale  face.) 

Pompdebile  {impressively).     Lords  and  ladies  of  the 

court,  this  is  an  important  moment  in  the  history  of  our 

reign.    The  Lady  Violetta,  whom  you  love  and  respect  — 

that  is,  I  mean  to  say,  whom  the  ladies  love  and  the  lords  — 

er  —  respect,  is  about  to  prove  whether  or  not  she  be  fitted 

to  hold  the  exalted  position  of  Queen  of  Hearts,  according 

to  the  law,  made  a  thousand  years  ago  by  Pompdebile  the 

Great,  and  steadily  followed  ever  since.   She  will  prepare 

with  her  own  delicate,  white  hands  a  dish  of  pastry.  This 

will  be  judged  by  the  two  finest  pastry  cooks  in  the  land. 

(Blue  Hose  and  Yellow  Hose  bow  deeply.) 
K  their  verdict  be  favorable,  she  shall  ride  through  the 
streets  of  the  city  on  a  white  palfrey,  garlanded  with  flowers. 
She  will  be  crowned,  the  populace  will  cheer  her,  and  she 
will  reign  by  our  side,  attending  to  the  domestic  affairs  of 
the  realm,  while  we  give  our  time  to  weightier  matters. 
This  of  course  you  all  understand  is  a  time  of  great  anxiety 
for  the  Lady  Violetta.    She  will  appear  worried —    {To 
Chancellor)  The  palfrey  is  in  readiness,  we  suppose. 
Chancellor.  It  is,  Your  Majesty. 
Pompdebile.  Garlanded  with  flowers? 
Chancellor.  With  roses.  Your  Majesty. 
Knave  {bowing).    The  Lady  Violetta  prefers  violets. 
Your  Majesty. 


112  TIIE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Let  there  be  a  few  violets  put  in  with  the 
roses  —  er  —  We  are  ready  for  the  ceremony  to  com- 
mence. We  confess  to  a  slight  nervousness  unbecoming  to 
one  of  our  station.  The  Lady  Violetta,  though  trying  at 
times,  we  have  found  —  er  —  shall  we  say  —  er  —  satis- 
fying? 

Knave  (bowing).  Intoxicating,  Your  Majesty? 

Chancellor  (shortly).  His  Majesty  means  nothing  of 
the  sort. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  No,  of  course  not  —  er  —  The  mule  — 
Is  that  —  did  you  —  ? 

Chancellor  (m  a  grieved  tone).  This  is  hardly  neces- 
sary. Have  I  ever  neglected  or  forgotten  any  of  your  com- 
mands. Your  Majesty? 

PoMPDEBiLE.  You  luivc,  oftcii.  Ilowcvcr,  dou't  be  in- 
sulted. It  takes  a  great  deal  of  our  time  ami  it  is  most 
uninteresting. 

Chancellor  (indignantly).   I  resign.  Your  Majesty. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Your  thirty-seveuth  resignation  will  be 
accepted  to-morrow.  Just  now  it  is  our  wish  to  begin  at 
once.  The  anxiety  that  no  doubt  gathered  in  the  breast  of 
each  of  the  seven  successive  Pompdebiles  before  us  seems 
to  have  concentrated  in  ours.  Already  the  people  are  clam- 
oring at  the  gates  of  the  j)alace  to  know  the  decision.  lie- 
gin.  Let  the  Pages  be  summoned. 

Knave,  (boicing).  Beg  pardon.  Your  Majesty;  beft)re 
summoning  the  Pages,  should  not  the  Lady  Violetta  be 
here? 

PoMPDEBiLE.  She  should,  and  is,  we  presume,  on  tlie 
other  side  of  that  door  —  waiting  broatiilessly. 

(The  Knave  quietly  opens  the  door  and  closes  it.) 

Knavf:  (boicing).  She  is  not,  Your  Majesty,  on  the  other 
side  of  that  door  waiting  breathlessly.  In  fact,  to  speak 
plainly,  she  is  not  on  the  other  side  of  that  door  at  all. 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  113 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Can  that  be  true?  Wliere  are  her  ladies? 

Knave.  They  are  all  there.  Your  Majesty. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Summon  one  of  them. 

(The  Knave  goes  out,  shutting  the  door.  He  returns,  fol- 
lowing Ursula,  who,  very  much  frightened,  throws 
herself  at  the  King's  feet.) 

Pompdebile.  Where  is  your  mistress? 

Ursula.  She  has  gone,  Your  Majesty. 

Pompdebile.  Gone!  Where  has  she  gone? 

Ursula.  I  do  not  know,  Your  Majesty.  She  was  with  us 
a  while  ago,  waiting  there,  as  you  commanded. 

Pompdebile.  Yes,  and  then  —  speak. 

Ursula.  Then  she  started  out  and  forbade  us  to  go  with 
her. 

Pompdebile.  The  thought  of  possible  divorce  from  us 
was  more  than  she  could  bear.  Did  she  say  anything  be- 
fore she  left? 

Ursula  {tremhling) .  Yes,  Your  Majesty. 

Pompdebile.  What  was  it?  She  may  have  gone  to  self- 
destruction.   What  was  it? 

Ursula.  She  said  — 

Pompdebile.  Speak,  woman,  speak. 

Ursula.  She  said  that  Your  Majesty  — 

Pompdebile.  A  farewell  message!   Go  on. 

Ursula  {gasping).  That  Your  Majesty  was  "pokey" 
and  that  she  did  n't  intend  to  stay  there  any  longer. 

Pompdebile  (roar mgr).   Pokey!  1 

Ursula.  Yes,  Your  Majesty,  and  she  bade  me  call  her 
when  you  came,  but  we  can't  find  her,  Your  Majesty. 

{The  Pastry  Cooks  whisper.  Ursula  is  in  tears.) 

Chancellor.  This  should  not  be  countenanced.  Your 
Majesty.  The  word  "pokey"  cannot  be  found  in  the  dic- 
tionary. It  is  the  most  flagrant  disrespect  to  use  a  word 
that  is  not  in  the  dictionary  in  connection  with  a  king. 


114  THE  KNAVE  OF  HE.\RTS 

PoMPDEBiLE.  We  are  quite  aware  of  that.  Chancellor, 
and  although  wc  may  appear  calm  on  the  surface,  inwardly 
we  are  swelling,  sicdling,  with  rage  and  indignation. 

Knave  {looking  out  the  windoic).  I  see  the  Lady  Violetta 
in  the  garden.  (He  goes  to  the  door  and  holds  it  open,  bowing.) 
The  Lady  Violetta  is  at  the  door,  Your  Majesty. 

{Enter  the  Lady  Violetta,  her  purple  train  over  her 
arm.  She  has  been  running.) 

Violetta.  Am  I  late?  I  just  remembered  and  came 
as  fast  as  I  could.  I  bumped  into  a  sentry  and  he  fell 
down.  I  did  n't.  That's  strange,  isn't  it?  I  suppose  it's 
because  he  stands  in  one  position  so  long  he  —  ^^  hy, 
Pompy  dear,  what's  the  matter?  Oh,  oh!  {Walking  closer) 
Your  feelings  are  hurt! 

Pompdebile.  Dont  call  us  Pompy.  It  does  n't  seem  to 
matter  to  you  whether  you  are  divorced  or  not. 

Violetta  {anxiously).  Is  that  why  your  feelings  are 
hurt? 

Pompdebile.  Our  feelings  are  not  hurt,  not  at  all. 

Violetta.  Oh,  yes,  they  are,  Pompdcl/ile  dear.  I  know, 
because  they  are  connected  with  your  eyel)ro\vs.  \Mien 
your  feelings  go  down,  up  go  your  eyebrows,  and  when  your 
feelings  go  up,  they  go  down  —  always. 

Pompdebile  {severely).  Where  have  you  been? 

Violetta.  I,  just  now? 

Pompdebile.  Just  now,  when  you  should  have  been  out- 
side that  door  waiting  breathlessly. 

Violetta.  I  was  in  the  garden.  Really,  Pompy,  you 
could  n't  expect  me  to  stay  all  day  in  that  riiliculous  i)an- 
try;  and  as  for  being  breathless,  it's  (piite  impossil)le  to  l)e 
it  unless  one  has  been  jumping  or  something. 

Pompdebile.  What  were  you  doing  in  the  garden? 

Violetta  {laughing).  Oh,  it  was  too  funny.  I  must  tell 
you.    I  found  a  goat  there  who  had  a  beard  just  like  the 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  115 

Chancellor's  —  really  it  was  quite  remarkable,  the  resem- 
blance —  in  other  ways  too.  I  took  him  by  the  horns  and 
I  looked  deep  into  his  eyes,  and  I  said,  "Chancellor,  if  you 
try  to  influence  Pompy  — " 

PoMPDEBiLE  (shouting).  Don't  call  us  Pompy. 
ViOLETTA.  Excuse  me,  Pomp  — 

(Checking  herself.) 
Knave.  And  yet  I  think  I  remember  hearing  of  an  em- 
peror, a  great  emperor,  named  Pompey. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  We  know  him  not.    Begin  at  once;  the 

people  are  clamoring  at  the  gates.  Bring  the  ingredients. 

(The  Tastry  Cooks  open  the  door,  and,  single  file,  six 

little  boys  march  in,  hearing  large  jars  labeled  butter, 

salt,  flour,  pepper,  cinnamon,  and  milk.    The  Cooks 

place  a  table  and  a  large  bowl  and  a  pan  in  front  of  the 

Lady  Violetta  and  give  her  a  spoon.    The  six  little 

hoys  stand  three  on  each  side.) 

Violetta.  Oh,  what  darling  little  ingredients.    INIay  I 

have  an  apron,  please? 

(Ursula  puts  a  silk  apron,  embroidered  with  red  hearts, 
on  the  Lady  Violetta.) 
Blue  Hose.  We  were  unable  to  find  a  little  boy  to  carry 
the  pepper.  My  Lady.  They  all  would  sneeze  in  such  a  dis- 
turbing way. 

Violetta.  This  is  a  perfectly  controlled  little  boy.  He 
has  n't  sneezed  once. 

Yellow  Hose.  That,  if  it  please  Your  Ladyship,  is  not 
a  little  boy. 

Violetta.  Oh!  How  nice!  Perhaps  she  will  help  me. 
Chancellor  (severely).  You  are  allowed  no  help.  Lady 
Violetta. 

Violetta.  Oh,  Chancellor,  how  cruel  of  you.  (She  takes 
up  the  spoon,  homng.)  Your  Majesty,  Lords  and  Ladies  of 
the  court,  I  propose  to  make  (impressively)  raspberry  tarts. 


116  THE   KXAVE  OF  HEARTS 

Blie  Hosk.  Heaven  l)e  kiml  to  us! 

Yellow  Hose  {suddenly  agitated).  Your  Majesty,  I  im- 
plore your  forgiveness.  There  is  no  raspberry  jam  in  the 
palace. 

PoMPDEBiLE  What!  Who  is  responsible  for  this  care- 
lessness? 

Blue  Hose.  I  gave  the  order  to  the  grocer,  but  it  did  n't 
come.  (Aside)  I  knew  something  like  this  would  happen. 
I  knew  it. 

ViOLETTA  (untying  her  apron).  Then,  Ponipdebile,  I  'm 
very  sorry  —  we  shall  have  to  postpone  it. 

Chancellor.  If  I  may  be  allowed  to  suggest.  Lady 
Violetta  can  prepare  something  else. 

Knave.  The  law  distinctly  says  that  the  Queen-elect 
has  the  privilege  of  choosing  the  dish  which  she  prefers  to 
prepare. 

\'ioletta.  Dear  rompdobilc,  let 's  give  it  up.  It 's  such  a 
silly  law!  Why  should  a  great  splendid  ruler  like  you  fol- 
low it  just  because  one  of  your  ancestors,  who  was  n't  half 
as  nice  as  you  are,  or  one  bit  wiser,  said  to  do  it.^  Dearest 
Pompdebile,  please. 

PoMi'DEiuLE.  We  are  inclined  to  think  that  there  may  be 
something  in  what  the  Lady  \  iolctta  says. 

Chancellor.  I  can  no  longer  remain  silent.  Itisilucto 
that  ])rilliant  law  of  Poinpdcliile  the  First,  justly  called  the 
Great,  that  all  mcnil)ers  of  our  niale  sex  are  well  fed,  and, 
as  a  natural  con.sequcnce,  hai)py. 

Knave.  The  happiness  of  a  set  of  moles  who  never  knew 
the  sunlight. 

Pompdebile.  If  we  made  an  cllort.  we  could  think  of  a 
new  law  —  just  as  wise.   It  only  rc(|uires  ctTort. 

Chaistkllou.  But  the  constitution.  We  can't  touch 
the  constitution. 

Pompdebile  (starting  up).  We  shall  destroy  the  con- 
stitution! 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  117 

Chancellor.  The  people  are  clamoring  at  the  gates ! 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Oh,  I  forgot  them.  No,  it  has  been  carried 
too  far.  We  shall  have  to  go  on.  Proceed. 

VioLETTA.  Without  the  raspberry  jam? 

PoMPDEBiLE  (Jo  Knave).  Go  you,  and  procure  some.  I 
will  give  a  hundred  golden  guineas  for  it. 

{The  little  boy  who  holds  the  cinnamon  pot  comes  for- 
ward.) 

Boy.  Please,  Your  Majesty,  I  have  some. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  You!  Where? 

Boy.  In  my  pocket.  If  someone  would  please  hold  my 
cinnamon  jar  —  I  could  get  it, 

(Ursula  takes  it.   The  boy  struggles  with  his  pocket  and 
finally,  triumphantly ,  pulls  out  a  small  jar.) 
There! 

VioLETTA.  How  clever  of  you !  Do  you  always  do  that? 

Boy.  What  —  eat  raspberry  jam? 

ViOLETTA.  No,  supply  the  exact  article  needed  from 
your  pocket. 

Boy.  I  eat  it  for  my  lunch.  Please  give  me  the  hundred 
guineas. 

ViOLETTA.  Oh,  yes  —  Chancellor  —  if  I  may  trouble  you. 

{Holding  out  her  hand.) 

Chancellor.  Your  Majesty,  this  is  an  outrage!  Are  you 
going  to  allow  this? 

Pompdebile  {sadly) .  Yes,  Chancellor.  We  have  such  an 
impulsive  nature ! 

{The  Lady  Violetta  receives  the  money.) 

ViOLETTA.  Thank  you.  {She  gives  it  to  the  boy.)  Now  we 
are  ready  to  begin.  Milk,  please.  {The  boy  who  holds  the 
milk  jar  comes  forward  and  kneels.)  I  take  some  of  this  milk 
and  beat  it  well. 

Yellow  Hose  {in  a  whisper).  Beat  it  —  milk! 

ViOLETTA.  Then  I  put  in  two  tablespoonfuls  of  salt,  tak- 
ing great  care  that  it  falls  exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  bowl. 


118  THE  KNA\T  OF  HE.VRTS 

{To  the  little  boy)  Thank  you,  dear.  Now  the  flour,  no,  the 
pepper,  and  then  —  one  pound  of  butter.  I  hope  that  it  is 
good  butter,  or  the  whole  thing  will  be  quite  spoiled. 

Blue  Hose.  This  is  the  most  astonishing  thing  I  have 
ever  witnessed. 

Yellow  Hose.  I  don't  understand  it. 

ViOLETT.v  (stirring).  I  find  that  the  butter  is  not  very 
good.  It  makes  a  great  difference.  I  shall  have  to  use  more 
pepper  to  counteract  it.  That's  better.  {She  pours  in 
pepper.  The  boy  with  the  pepper  pot  sneezes  violently.)  Oh, 
oh,  dear!  Lend  him  your  handkerchief ,  Chancellor.  Knave, 
will  you?  (Yellow  Hose  silences  the  boy's  sneezes  irilh  the 
Knave's  handkerchief.)  I  think  that  they  are  going  to  turn 
out  very  well.  Are  n  't  you  glad.  Chancellor?  You  shall 
have  one  if  you  will  be  glad  and  smile  nicely  —  a  litlle 
brown  tart  with  raspberry  jam  in  the  middle.  Now  for  a 
dash  of  vinegar. 

Cooks  {in  horror).  Vinegar!  Great  Goslings!  Vinegar! 

VioLETTA  {stops  Stirring).  Vinegar  will  make  them 
crumbly.  Do  you  like  them  crumbly,  Pompdebile,  darlini,'? 
They  are  really  for  you,  you  know,  since  I  am  trying,  by 
this  examj)le,  to  show  all  the  wives  how  to  please  all  the 
husbands. 

Pompdebile.  Remember  that  they  are  to  go  in  the  mu- 
seum with  the  tests  of  the  previous  Queens. 

Violetta  {thoughtfully).  Oh,  yes,  I  had  forgotten  that. 
Under  the  circumstances,  I  shall  omit  the  vine^'ar.  We 
don't  want  them  too  crumbly.  They  would  fall  about  and 
catch  the  dust  so  frightfully.  The  museum-keeper  would 
never  forgive  me  in  years  to  come.  Now  I  dip  them  by  the 
spoonful  on  this  pan;  fill  them  with  the  nice  little  boy's 
raspberry  jam  —  I  'm  sorry  I  have  to  use  it  all,  but  you  may 
lick  the  sjjoon  —  put  them  in  the  oven,  slam  the  door. 
Now,  my  Lord  Pompy,  the  fire  will  do  the  rest. 

(She  curtsies  before  the  KiNc.) 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  119 

PoMPDEBiLE.  It  gave  us  great  pleasure  to  see  the  ease 
vnth.  which  you  performed  your  task.  You  must  have  been 
practising  for  weeks.  This  reheves,  somewhat,  the  anxiety 
under  which  we  have  been  suffering  and  makes  us  think 
that  we  would  enjoy  a  game  of  checkers  once  more.  How 
long  a  time  will  it  take  for  your  creation  to  be  thoroughly 
done,  so  that  it  may  be  tested? 

VioLETTA  (considering) .  About  twenty  minutes,  Pompy. 

PoMPDEBiLE  (to  Herald)  .  Inform  the  people.  Come,  we 
will  retire.  (To  Knave)  Let  no  one  enter  until  the  Lady 
Violetta  commands. 

(All  exit,  left,  except  the  Knave.  He  stands  in  deep 
thought,  his  chin  in  hand  —  then  exits  slowly,  right. 
The  room  is  empty.  The  cuckoo  clock  strikes.  Pres- 
ently both  right  and  left  doors  open  stealthily.  Enter 
Lady  Violetta  at  one  door,  the  Knave  at  the  other, 
bachvard,  looking  down  the  passage.  They  turn  sud- 
denly and  see  each  other.) 

Violetta  (tearfully).  O  Knave,  I  can't  cook!  Any- 
thing —  anything  at  all,  not  even  a  baked  potato. 

Knave.  So  I  rather  concluded.  My  Lady,  a  few  minutes 
ago. 

Violetta  (pleadingly).  Don't  you  think  it  might  just 
happen  that  they  turned  out  all  right?  (Whispering) 
Take  them  out  of  the  oven.  Let 's  look. 

Knave.  That 's  what  I  intended  to  do  before  you  came 
in.  It 's  possible  that  a  miracle  has  occurred. 

(He  tries  the  door  of  the  oven.) 

Violetta.  Look  out;  it's  hot.  Here,  take  my  hand- 
kerchief. 

Knave.  The  gods  forbid.  My  Lady. 

(He  takes  his  hat,  and,  folding  it,  opens  the  door  and 
brings  out  the  pan,  which  he  puts  on  the  table  softly.) 

Violetta  (with  a  look  of  horror).  How  queer!  They've 


120  THE  KNAVE  OF  HE.VRTS 

melted  or  something.  See,  they  are  quite  soft  and  runny. 
Do  you  think  that  they  will  be  good  for  anything, 
Knave? 

Knave.  For  paste,  My  Lady,  perhaps. 

VioLETTA.  Oh,  dear.  Is  n't  it  dreadful! 

Knave.  It  is. 

ViOLETTA  (beginning  to  cry).  I  don't  want  to  be  ban- 
ished, especially  on  a  mule  — 

Knave.  Don't  cry,  My  Lady.  It 's  very  —  upsetting. 

ViOLETTA.  I  would  make  a  delightful  queen.  The  f^tcs 
that  I  would  give  —  under  the  starlight,  with  soft  music 
stealing  from  the  shadows,  fetes  all  perfume  and  deep  mys- 
tery, where  the  young  —  like  you  and  me.  Knave  —  would 
find  the  glowing  flowers  of  youth  ready  to  be  gathered  in 
all  their  dewy  freshness ! 

Knave.  Ah! 

ViOLETTA.  Those  stupid  tarts!  And  wouKl  n't  I  make  a 
pretty  picture  riding  on  the  white  palfrey,  garlanded  with 
flowers,  followed  by  the  cheers  of  the  populace  —  Long 
live  Queen  Violetta,  long  live  Queen  Violctta!  Those 
abominable  i'i\.xis\ 

Knave.  I'm  afraid  that  Her  Ladyship  is  vain. 

ViOLETT.\.  I  am  indeed.   Is  n't  it  fortunate.* 

Knave.  Fortunate? 

ViOLETTA.  Well,  I  mean  it  wouUl  be  fortunate  if  I  were 
going  to  be  queen.  They  get  so  much  flattery.  The  queens 
who  don't  adore  it  as  I  do  nuist  be  bored  to  death.  Poor 
things!  I'm  never  so  happy  as  when  I  am  being  flattered. 
It  makes  me  feel  all  warm  and  purry.  That  is  another  rea- 
son why  I  feel  sure  I  was  made  to  be  a  queen. 

K^■A^■E  (looking  ruefully  at  the  pan).  You  will  never  be 
queen.  My  Lady,  unless  we  can  think  of  something  quickly, 
some  plan  — 

VioLKTT A.  Oh,  yes,  dear  Knave,  jilease  think  of  a  plan  nt 
once.  Banished  people,  I  suppose,  have  to  comb  their  own 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  121 

hair,  put  on  their  shoes,  and  button  themselves  up  the  back. 
I  have  never  performed  these  estimable  and  worthy  tasks. 
Knave.  I  don't  know  how;  I  don't  even  know  how  to  scent 
my  bath.  I  have  n't  the  least  idea  what  makes  it  smell 
deliciously  of  violets.  I  only  know  that  it  always  does  smell 
deliciously  of  violets  because  I  wish  it  that  way.  I  should 
be  miserable;  save  me.  Knave,  please. 

Knave.  My  mind  is  unhappily  a  blank.  Your  Majesty. 

ViOLETTA.  It's  very  unjust.  Indeed,  it's  unjust!  No 
other  queen  in  the  world  has  to  understand  cooking;  even 
the  Queen  of  Spades  does  n't.  Why  should  the  Queen  of 
Hearts,  of  all  people ! 

Knave.  Perhaps  it  is  because  —  I  have  heard  a  proverb: 
"The  way  to  the  heart  is  through  the  — " 

ViOLETTA  {angrily,  stamping  her  foot).  Don't  repeat  that 
hateful  proverb !  Nothing  can  make  me  more  angry.  I  feel 
Hke  crying  when  I  hear  it,  too.  Now  see,  I 'm  crying.  You 
made  me. 

Knave.  Why  does  that  proverb  make  you  cry.  My 
Lady? 

ViOLETTA.  Oh,  because  it  is  such  a  stupid  proverb  and 
so  silly,  because  it 's  true  in  most  cases,  and  because  —  I 
don't  know  why. 

Knave.  We  are  a  set  of  moles  here.  One  might  also  say 
that  we  are  a  set  of  mules.  How  can  moles  or  mules  either 
be  expected  to  understand  the  point  of  view  of  a  Bird  of 
Paradise  when  she  — 

ViOLETTA.  Bird  of  Paradise!  Do  you  mean  me? 

Knave  (bowing).  I  do,  My  Lady,  figuratively  speaking. 

ViOLETTA  {drying  her  eyes).  How  very  pretty  of  you! 
Do  you  know,  I  think  that  you  would  make  a  splendid 
chancellor. 

Knave.  Her  Ladyship  is  vain,  as  I  remarked  before. 

ViOLETTA  {coldly).  As  I  remarked  before,  how  fortunate. 
Have  you  anything  to  suggest  —  a  plan? 


122  THE  KNA\T  OF  HEARTS 

Knave.  If  only  there  were  time  my  wife  could  teach 
you.  Her  figure  is  squat,  round,  her  nose  is  clumsy,  and  her 
eyes  stumble  over  it;  but  her  cooking,  ah  —  {He  blows  a 
kiss)  it  is  a  thing  to  dream  about.  She  cooks  as  nat- 
urally as  the  angels  sing.  The  delicate  flavors  of  her 
concoctions  float  over  the  palate  like  the  perfumes  of  a 
thousand  flowers.  True,  her  temper,  it  is  anj-thing  but 
sweet  —  However,  I  am  conceded  by  many  to  be  the  most 
happily  married  man  in  the  kingdom. 

ViOLETTA  (sadly).  Yes.  That's  all  they  care  about  here. 
One  may  be,  oh,  so  cheerful  and  kind  and  nice  in  every 
other  way,  but  if  one  can't  cook  nobody  loves  one  at  all. 

Knave.  Beasts!  My  higher  nature  cries  out  at  them  for 
holding  such  views.  Fools!  Swine!  But  my  lower  nature 
whispers  that  perhaps  after  all  they  are  not  far  from  right, 
and  as  my  lower  nature  is  the  only  one  that  ever  gets  any 
encouragement  — 

ViOLETTA.  Then  you  think  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  —  I  shall  have  to  be  banished? 

Knave.  I  'm  afraid  —  Wait,  I  have  an  idea !  (Excitedly) 
Dulcinea,  my  wife  —  her  name  is  Dulcinea  —  made  known 
to  me  this  morning,  very  forcil)ly  —  Yes,  I  remember,  I  'm 
sure  —  Yes,  she  was  going  to  bake  this  very  morning 
some  raspberry  tarts  —  a  dish  in  which  she  particularly 
excels  —  If  I  could  only  procure  some  of  them  and  bring 
them  here! 

ViOLETTA.  Oh,  Knave,  dearest,  sweetest  Knave,  could 
you,  I  mean,  would  you?  Is  there  time?  The  court  will 
return. 

(They  tiptoe  to  the  door  and  listen  stealihily.) 

Knave.  I  shall  run  as  fast  as  I  can.  Don't  let  anyone 
come  in  until  I  get  back,  if  you  can  help  it. 

(Tie  jumps  on  the  table,  ready  to  go  out  the  window.) 

ViOLETTA.  Oh,  Knave,  how  clever  of  you  to  think  of  it. 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  123 

It  is  the  custom  for  the  King  to  grant  a  boon  to  the  Queen 
at  her  coronation.  I  shall  ask  that  you  be  made  Chancellor. 
Knave  (turning  back).   Oh,  please  don't.  My  Lady,  I 
implore  you. 
VioLETTA.  Why  not? 

Knave.  It  would  give  me  social  position,  My  Lady,  and 
that  I  would  rather  die  than  possess.  Oh,  how  we  argue 
about  that,  my  wife  and  I !  Dulcinea  wishes  to  climb,  and 
the  higher  she  climbs,  the  less  she  cooks.  Should  you  have 
me  made  Chancellor,  she  would  never  wield  a  spoon  again. 
ViOLETTA  {pursing  her  lips).  But  it  does  n't  seem  fair, 
exactly.  Think  of  how  much  I  shall  be  indebted  to  her. 
If  she  enjoys  social  position,  I  might  as  well  give  her  some. 
We  have  lots  and  lots  of  it  lying  around. 

Knave.  She  would  n't.  My  Lady,  she  would  n't  enjoy 
it.  Dulcinea  is  a  true  genius,  you  understand,  and  the 
happiness  of  a  genius  lies  solely  in  using  his  gift.  If  she 
did  n't  cook  she  would  be  miserable,  although  she  might 
not  be  aware  of  it,  I  'm  perfectly  sure. 

ViOLETTA.  Then  I  shall  take  all  social  position  away 
from  you.   You  shall  rank  below  the  scullery  maids.    Do 
you  like  that  better?  Hurry,  please. 
Knave.  Thank  you,  My  Lady;  it  will  suit  me  perfectly. 
(He  goes  out  with  the  tarts.  Violetta  listens  anxiously 
for  a  minute;  then  she  takes  her  skirt  between  the  tips 
of  her  fingers  and  practises  in  pantomime  her  antici- 
pated ride  on  the  palfrey.  She  bows,  smiles,  kisses  her 
hand,  until  suddenly  she  remembers  the  mule  standing 
outside  the  gates  of  the  palace.    That  thought  saddens 
her,  so  she  curls  up  in  Pompdebile's  throne  and  cries 
softly,  teiping  aivay  her  tears  with  a  lace  handkerchief. 
There  is  a  knock.   She  flies  to  the  door  and  holds  it 
shut.) 
Violetta  {breathlessly).  Who  is  there? 


124  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

Chancellor.  It  is  I,  Lady  Violetta.  The  King  wishes 
to  return. 

Violetta  (alarmed).  Return!  Does  he?  But  the  tarts 
are  not  done.  They  are  not  done  at  all ! 

Ciianx'ELLOr.  You  said  they  would  be  ready  in  twenty 
minutes.   His  Majesty  is  impatient. 

Violetta.  Did  you  play  a  game  of  checkers  with  him, 
Chancellor? 

Chancellor.  Yes. 

Violetta.  And  did  you  beat  him? 

Chancellor  (shortly).  I  did  not. 

Violetta  (laughing).  How  sweet  of  you!  Would  you 
mind  doing  it  again  just  for  me?  Or  would  it  be  too  great 
a  strain  on  you  to  keep  from  beating  him  twice  in 
succession? 

Chancellor.  I  shall  tell  the  King  that  you  refuse 
admission. 

(Violetta  runs  to  the  loindoio  to  see  if  the  Knave  is  in 
sight.   The  Chancellor  returns  and  knocks.) 

Chancellor.  The  King  wishes  to  come  in. 

Violetta.  But  the  checkers! 

Chancellor.  The  Knights  of  the  Checker  Board  have 
taken  them  away. 

Violetta.  But  the  tarts  are  n't  done,  really. 

Chancellor.  You  said  twenty  minutes. 

Violetta.  No,  I  did  n't  —  at  least,  I  said  twenty  min- 
utes for  them  to  get  good  and  warm  and  another  twenty 
minutes  for  them  to  become  brown.  That  makes  forty  — 
don't  you  remember? 

Chancellor.  I  shall  carry  your  message  to  His  Majesty. 
(Violetta  again  runs  to  the  window  and  peers  anxiously 
up  the  road.) 

Chancellor  (knocking  loudly).  The  King  commands 
you  to  open  the  door. 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  125 

ViOLETTA.  Commands!  Tell  him  —  Is  he  there  —  with 
you? 

Chancellor.  His  Majesty  is  at  the  door. 

ViOLETTA.  Pompy,  I  think  you  are  rude,  very  rude 
indeed.  I  don't  see  how  you  can  be  so  rude  —  to  command 
me,  your  own  Violetta  who  loves  you  so.  (She  again  looks 
in  vain  for  the  Knave.)  Oh,  dear!  (Wringing  her  hands) 
Wliere  can  he  be ! 

PoMPDEBiLE  (outside).  This  is  nonsense.  Don't  you  see 
how  worried  we  are?  It  is  a  compliment  to  you  — 

ViOLETTA.  Well,  come  in;  I  don't  care  —  only  I'm  sure 
they  are  not  finished. 

{She  opens  the  door  for  the  King,  the  Chancellor, 
and  the  two  Pastry  Cooks.  The  King  walks  to  his 
throne.  He  finds  Lady  Violetta's  lace  handkerchief 
on  it.) 

Pompdebile  {holding  up  handkerchief).  "What  is  this? 

ViOLETTA.  Oh,  that 's  my  handkerchief. 

Pompdebile.  It  is  very  damp.  Can  it  be  that  you  are 
anxious,  that  you  are  afraid? 

Violetta.  How  silly,  Pompy.  I  washed  my  hands,  as 
one  always  does  after  cooking;  {to  the  Pastry  Cooks) 
does  n't  one?  But  there  was  no  towel,  so  I  used  my  hand- 
kerchief instead  of  my  petticoat,  which  is  made  of  chiffon 
and  is  very  perishable. 

Chancellor.  Is  the  Lady  Violetta  ready  to  produce 
her  work? 

Violetta.  I  don't  understand  what  you  mean  by  work, 
Chancellor.  Oh,  the  tarts!  {Nervously)  They  were  quite 
simple  —  quite  simple  to  make  —  no  work  at  all  —  A 
little  imagination  is  all  one  needs  for  such  things,  just 
imagination.  You  agree  with  me,  don't  you,  Pompy,  that 
imagination  will  work  wonders  —  will  do  almost  anything, 
in  fact?  I  remember  — 


126  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

PoMPDEBiLE.  The  Pastrj'  Cooks  will  remove  the  tarts 
from  the  oven. 

VioLETTA.  Oh,  no,  Pompy!  They  are  not  finished  or 
cooked,  or  whatever  one  calls  it.  They  are  not.  The  last 
five  minutes  is  of  the  greatest  importance.  Please  don't  let 
them  touch  them !  Please  — 

PoMPDEBiLE.  There,  there,  my  dear  Violetta,  calm  your- 
self. If  you  wish,  they  will  put  them  back  again.  There 
can  be  no  harm  in  looking  at  them.  Come,  I  will  hold  your 
hand. 

Violetta.  That  will  help  a  great  deal,  Pompy,  your 
holding  my  hand. 

(She  scrambles  up  on  the  throne  beside  the  King.) 

Chancellor  {in  horror).  On  the  throne.  Your  Majesty? 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Of  course  not,  Chancellor.  We  regret  that 

you  are  not  yet  entitled  to  sit  on  the  throne,  my  dear.  In  a 

little  while  — 

Violetta  {coming  dovm).  Oh,  I  sec.  May  I  sit  here. 
Chancellor,  in  this  seemingly  humble  position  at  his  feet? 
Of  course,  I  can't  really  be  humble  when  he  is  holding  my 
hand  and  enjoying  it  so  much. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Violetta!  {To  the  Pastry  Cooks)  Sam- 
ple the  tarts.   This  suspense  is  unbearable! 

{The  King's  voice  is  husky  icith  excitement.    The  two 
Pastry  Cooks,  after  boicing  irith  great  ceremony  to 
the  King,  to  each  other,  to  the  Chancellor — for 
this  is  the  most  important  moment  of  their  lircs  by  far 
—  walk  to  the  oven  door  and  open  it,  impressively. 
They  fall  back  in  astojiishment  so  great  that  they  lose 
their  balance,  but  they  quickly  scra7nble  to  their  feet 
again). 
Yellow  Hose.  Your  Majesty,  there  arc  no  tarts  there! 
Bn  e  Hose.  Your  ^lajcsty,  the  tarts  have  gone! 
\io\jKtt A  {clasping  her  hands).  Gone!  Oh,  where  could 
they  have  gone? 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  127 

PoMPDEBiLE  (coming  down  from  throne).  That  is  im- 
possible. 

Pastry  Cooks  {greatly  excited).  You  see,  you  see,  the 
oven  is  empty  as  a  drum. 

PoMPDEBiLE  (to  Violetta).  Did  you  go  out  of  this 
room? 

Violetta  (wailing).  Only  for  a  few  minutes,  Pompy,  to 
powder  my  nose  before  the  mirror  in  the  pantry.  (To 
Pastry  Cooks)  When  one  cooks  one  becomes  so  di- 
sheveled, does  n't  one?  But  if  I  had  thought  for  one  little 
minute  — 

Pompdebile  (interrupting).  The  tarts  have  been  stolen! 

Violetta  (with  a  shriek,  throwing  herself  on  a  chair). 

Stolen!  Oh,  I  shall  faint;  help  me.  Oh,  oh,  to  think  that 

any  one  would  take  my  delicious  little,  my  dear  little  tarts. 

My  salts.  Oh!  Oh!  ' 

(Pastry  Cooks  run  to  the  door  and  call.) 

Yellow  Hose.  Salts !  Bring  the  Lady  Violetta's  salts. 

Blue  Hose.  The  Lady  Violetta  has  fainted ! 

(Ursula  enters  hurriedly  bearing  a  smelling-bottle.) 

Ursula.  Here,  here  —  What  has  happened?  Oh,  My 
Lady,  my  sweet  mistress! 

Pompdebile.  Some  wretch  has  stolen  the  tarts. 

(Lady  Violetta  moans.) 

Ursula.  Bring  some  water.  I  will  take  off  her  headdress 
and  bathe  her  forehead. 

Violetta  (sitting  up).  I  feel  better  now.  Where  am  I? 
What  is  the  matter?  I  remember.  Oh,  my  poor  tarts! 

(She  buries  her  face  in  her  hands.) 

Chancellor  (suspiciously).  Your  Majesty,  this  is  very 
strange. 

Ursula  (excitedly).  I  know.  Your  Majesty.  It  was  the 
Knave.  One  of  the  Queen's  women,  who  was  walking  in  the 
garden,  saw  the  Knave  jump  out  of  this  window  with  a  tray 
in  his  hand.  It  was  the  Knave. 


128  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

ViOLETTA.  Ob,  I  don't  think  it  was  he.   I  don't,  really. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  The  scoundrel.  Of  course  it  was  he.  We 
shall  banish  him  for  this  or  have  him  beheaded. 

Chancellor.  It  should  have  been  done  long  ago,  Your 
Majesty. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  You  are  right. 

Chancellor.  Your  Majesty  will  never  listen  to  me. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  We  do  listen  to  you.  Be  quiet. 

ViOLETTA.  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Pompy,  dear? 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Herald,  issue  a  proclamation  at  once.  Let 
it  be  known  all  over  the  Kingdom  that  I  desire  that  the 
Knave  be  brought  here  dead  or  alive.  Send  the  royal  de- 
tectives and  policemen  in  every  direction. 

Chancellor.  Excellent ;  just  what  I  should  have  advised 
had  Your  IMajesty  listened  to  me. 

Pompdebile  {in  a  rage).  Be  quiet.  {Exit  Herald.)  I 
never  have  a  brilliant  thought  but  j'ou  claim  it.  It  is 
insufferable ! 

{The  Heralds  can  be  heard  in  the  distance.) 

Chancellor.  I  resign. 

Pompdebile.  Good.  W^e  accept  your  thirty-eighth  resig- 
nation at  once. 

Chancellor.  You  did  me  the  honor  to  appoint  me  as 
your  Chancellor,  Your  IMajesty,  yet  never,  never  do  you 
give  me  an  opportunity  to  chancel.  That  is  my  only  griev- 
ance. You  must  admit.  Your  Majesty,  that  as  your  ad- 
visers advise  you,  as  your  dressers  dress  you,  as  your 
hunters  hunt,  as  your  bakers  bake,  your  Chancellor  .should 
be  allowed  to  chancel.  However,  I  will  be  just  —  as  I  have 
been  with  you  so  long;  before  I  leave  you,  I  will  give  you 
a  month's  notice. 

Pompdebile.  That  is  n't  necessary. 

Chancellor  {referring  to  the  constitution  hanging  at  his 
belt).   It's  in  the  constitution. 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  129 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Be  quiet. 

ViOLETTA.  Well,  I  think  as  things  have  turned  out  so  —• 
so  unfortunately,  I  shall  change  my  gown.  {To  Ursula) 
Put  out  my  cloth  of  silver  with  the  moonstones.  It  is  always 
a  relief  to  change  one's  gown.  May  I  have  my  handker- 
chief, Pompy?  Rather  a  pretty  one,  is  n't  it,  Pompy?  Of 
course  you  don't  object  to  my  calling  you  Pompy  now. 
When  I  'm  in  trouble  it 's  a  comfort,  like  holding  your  hand. 

PoMPDEBiLE  {magnanimously) .  You  may  hold  our  hand 
too,  Violetta. 

ViOLETTA  {fervently).  Oh,  how  good  you  are,  how  sym- 
pathetic !  But  you  see  it 's  impossible  just  now,  as  I  have  to 
change  my  gown  —  unless  you  will  come  with  me  while 
I  change. 

Chancellor  {in  a  voice  charged  loith  inexpressible  hor- 
ror). Your  Majesty! 

Pompdebile.  Be  quiet!  You  have  been  discharged! 
{He  starts  to  descend,  irhen  a  Herald  bursts  through  the 
door  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  He  kneels  before 
Pompdebile.) 

Herald.  We  have  found  him;  we  have  found  him. 
Your  Majesty.  In  fact,  I  found  him  all  by  myseK !  He  was 
sitting  under  the  shrubbery  eating  a  tart.  I  stumbled 
over  one  of  his  legs  and  fell.  "  How  easy  it  is  to  send  man 
and  all  his  pride  into  the  dust,"  he  said,  and  then  —  I  saw 
him! 

Pompdebile.  Eating  a  tart !  Eating  a  tart,  did  you  say? 
The  scoundrel!  Bring  him  here  immediately. 

{The  Herald  rushes  out  and  returns  with  the  Bjnave, 
followed  by  the  six  little  Pages.  The  Knave  carries 
a  tray  of  tarts  in  his  hand.) 

Pompdebile  {almost  speechless  with  rage).  How  dare 
you  —  you  —  you  — 

Knave  {bovnng).  Knave,  Your  Majesty. 

10 


130  THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS 

PoMPDEBiLE.  You  Knave,  you  shall  be  punished  for 
this. 

Chancellor.  Behead  him,  Your  Majesty. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Yes,  behead  him  at  once. 

VioLETTA.  Oh,  no,  Pompy,  not  that!  It  is  not  severe 
enough. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Not  scverc  enough,  to  cut  off  a  man's 
head !  Really,  Violetta  — 

ViOLETTA.  No,  because,  you  see,  when  one  has  been  be- 
headed, one's  consciousness  that  one  has  been  beheaded 
comes  off  too.  It  is  inevitable.  And  then,  what  does  it 
matter,  when  one  does  n't  know?  Let  us  think  of  some- 
thing really  cruel  —  really  fiendish.  I  have  it  —  deprive 
him  of  social  position  for  the  rest  of  his  life  —  force  him  to 
remain  a  mere  knave,  forever. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  You  are  right. 

Knave.  Terrible  as  this  punishment  is,  I  admit  that  I 
deserve  it,  Your  INIajesty. 

Pompdebile.  What  prompted  you  to  commit  this  das- 
tardly crime? 

Knave.  All  my  life  I  have  had  a  craving  for  tarts  of  any 
kind.  There  is  something  in  my  nature  that  demands 
tarts  —  something  in  my  constitution  that  cries  out  for 
them  —  and  I  obey  my  constitution  as  rigidly  as  docs  the 
Chancellor  seek  to  obey  his.  I  was  in  the  garden  reading, 
as  is  my  habit,  when  a  delicate  odor  floated  to  my  nostrils, 
a  persuasive  odor,  a  seductive,  light  brown,  flaky  odor,  an 
odor  so  enticing,  so  suggestive  of  tarts  fit  for  the  gods  — 
that  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  It  was  stronger  than  I. 
With  one  gesture  I  threw  reputation,  my  chances  for  future 
happiness,  to  the  winds,  and  leaped  through  the  window. 
The  odor  led  me  to  the  oven;  I  seized  a  tart,  and,  eating  it, 
exjjerienced  the  one  perfect  moment  of  my  existence. 
After  having  eaten  that  one  tart,  my  craving  for  other 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  131 

tarts  has  disappeared.  I  shall  live  with  the  memory  of  that 
first  tart  before  me  forever,  or  die  content,  having  tasted 
true  perfection. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  M-m-m,  how  extraordinary !  Let  him  be 
beaten  fifteen  strokes  on  the  back.  Now,  Pastry  Cooks  to 
the  Royal  Household,  we  await  your  decision ! 

(The  Cooks  bow  as  before;  then  each  selects  a  tart  from 
the  tray  on  the  table,  lifts  it  high,  then  puts  it  in  his 
month.   An  expression  of  absolute  ecstasy  and  beati- 
tude comes  over  their  faces.    They  clasp  hands,  then 
fall  on  each  other'' s  necks,  weeping.) 
PoMPDEBiLE  {impatiently).  What  on  earth  is  the  matter? 
Yellow  Hose.  Excuse  our  emotion.   It  is  because  we 
have  at  last  encountered  a  true  genius,  a  great  master,  or 
rather  mistress,  of  our  art. 

{They  bow  to  Violetta.) 
Pompdebile.  They  are  good,  then.^ 
Blue  Hose  {his  eyes  to  heaven) .  Good !  They  are  angelic ! 
Pompdebile.  Give  one  of  the  tarts  to  us.    We  would 
sample  it. 

{The  Pastry  Cooks  hand  the  tray  to  the  King,  who 
selects  a  tart  and  eats  it.) 
Pompdebile  {to  Violetta).  My  dear,  they  are  marvels! 
marvels !  {He  comes  down  from  the  throne  and  leadsYioijETTA 
up  to  the  dais.)  Your  throne,  my  dear. 

Violetta  {sitting  down,  with  a  sigh) .  I  'm  glad  it 's  such  a 
comfortable  one. 

Pompdebile.  Knave,  we  forgive  your  offense.  The  temp- 
tation was  very  great.  There  are  things  that  mere  human 
nature  cannot  be  expected  to  resist.  Another  tart.  Cooks, 
and  yet  another ! 

Chancellor.  But,  Your  Majesty,  don't  eat  them  all. 
They  must  go  to  the  museum  with  the  dishes  of  the  pre- 
vious Queens  of  Hearts. 


132  THE  KNAVE  OF  IIE.VRTS 

Yellow  Hose.  A  museum  —  those  tarts!  As  well  lock 
a  rose  in  a  m.oney-box ! 

Chancellor.  But  the  constitution  commands  it.  How 
else  can  v.e  commemorate,  for  future  generations,  this 
event? 

Knave.  An  Your  Majesty,  please,  I  will  commemorate 
it  in  a  rhyme. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  How  can  a  mere  rhyme  serve  to  keep  this 
affair  in  the  minds  of  the  people? 

Knave.  It  is  the  onhj  way  to  keep  it  in  the  minds  of  the 
people.  No  event  is  truly  deathless  unless  its  monument  be 
built  in  rhyme.  Consider  that  fall  which,  though  insignifi- 
cant in  itself,  became  the  most  famous  of  all  history,  be- 
cause someone  happened  to  put  it  into  rhyme.  The  crash  of 
it  sounded  through  centuries  and  will  vibrate  for  genera- 
tions to  come. 

Violetta.  You  mean  the  fall  of  the  Holy  Roman 
Empire? 

Knave.  No,  IMadam,  I  refer  to  the  fall  of  Humpty 
Dumpty. 

Pompdebile.  Well,  make  your  rhyme.  In  the  mean- 
time let  us  celebrate.  You  may  all  have  one  tart.  (The 
Pastry  Cooks  pa.s^s  the  iar!s.  To  Violetta)  Are  you  will- 
ing, dear,  to  ride  the  white  palfrey  garlanded  with  flowers 
through  the  streets  of  the  city? 

Violetta.  Willing!  I  have  been  practising  for  days! 

Pompdebile.  The  people,  I  suppose,  are  still  clamoring 
at  the  gates. 

Violetta.  Oh,  yes,  they  must  clamor.  I  iront  them  to. 
Herald,  tell  them  that  to  every  man  I  shall  toss  a  flower,  to 
every  woman  a  shining  gold  i^icce,  but  to  the  babies  I  shall 
throw  only  kisses,  thousands  of  them,  like  little  winged 
birds.  Kisses  and  gold  and  roses!  They  will  surely  love  mc 
then! 


THE  KNAVE  OF  HEARTS  133 

Chancellor.  Your  Majesty,  I  protest.  Of  what  pos- 
sible use  to  the  people  —  ? 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Be  quiet.  The  Queen  may  scatter  what 
she  pleases. 

Knave.  My  rhyme  is  ready,  Your  Majesty. 

PoMPDEBiLE.  Repeat  it. 

Knave. 

The  Queen  of  Hearts 
She  made  some  tarts 
All  on  a  summer's  day. 
The  Knave  of  Hearts 
He  stole  those  tarts 
And  took  them  quite  away. 

The  King  of  Hearts 

Called  for  those  tarts 

And  beat  the  Knave  full  sore. 

The  Knave  of  Hearts 

Brought  back  the  tarts 

And  vowed  he'd  sin  no  more. 

ViOLETTA  (earnestly).  My  dear  Knave,  how  wonderful 
of  you !  You  shall  be  Poet  Laureate.  A  Poet  Laureate  has 
no  social  position,  has  he? 

Knave.  It  depends,  Your  Majesty,  upon  whether  or  not 
he  chooses  to  be  more  lam-eate  than  poet. 

ViOLETTA  (rising,  her  eyes  closed  in  ecstasy).  Your  Maj- 
esty! Those  words  go  to  my  head  —  like  wine ! 

Knave.  Long  live  Pompdebile  the  Eighth,  and  Queen 
Violetta !  ( The  trumpets  sound.) 

Heralds.  Make  way  for  Pompdebile  the  Eighth,  and 
Queen  Fi-oletta! 

ViOLETTA  (excitedly).    Fee-oletta,  please! 

Heralds.  Make  way  for  Pompdebile  the  Eighth,  and 
Queen  Fee-oletta  — 

(The  King  and  Queen  show  themselves  at  the  door  — 
and  the  people  can  he  heard  clamoring  outside.) 

[Cubtain] 


FAME  AND  THE  POET' 

LORD  DUNSANY 

SCENE:   The  PoeVs  rooms  in  London.   Windows  in  back. 

A  high  screen  in  a  comer. 
TIME:  February  30th. 

CHARACTERS 

Harry  de  Reves.  —  A  Poet. 

{This  name,  though  of  course  of  French  origin,  has  become 
anglicized  and  is  pronounced  de  Reeves.) 
Dick  Prattle.  —  A  Lieutenant-Major  of  the  Royal  Horse 

Marines. 
Fame. 

(The  Poet  is  sitting  at  a  table,  writing.  Enter  Dick 
Prattle.) 

Prattle.  Hullo,  Harrj'. 

De  Reves.  Hullo,  Dick.  Good  Lord,  where  are  you 
from? 

Prattle  (casuallij).  The  ends  of  the  Earth. 

De  Reves.  Well,  I  'ni  damned ! 

Prattle.  Thought  I'd  drop  in  and  see  how  you  were 
getting  on. 

DeRe\'ES.  Well,  that's  splendid.  What  are  you  doing  in 
London? 

Prattle.  Well,  I  wanted  to  see  if  I  could  get  one  or  two 

•  R<'printo<l  from  tlic  Atlantic  Monthly  for  June,  1919,  by  si>cciiil  jkf- 
Diissiun  of  Ix)rd  Dunsuny  and  the  editors  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 


FAME  AND  THE  POET  135 

decent  ties  to  wear,  —  you  can  get  nothing  out  there,  — 
then  I  thought  I  'd  have  a  look  and  see  how  London  was 
getting  on. 

DeReves.  Splendid!  How's  everybody? 

Prattle.  All  going  strong. 

De  Reves.  That 's  good. 

Prattle  {seeing  paj)er  and  ink) .  But  what  are  you  doing? 

De  Reves.  Writing. 

Prattle.  Writing?  I  did  n't  know  you  wrote. 

De  Reves.  Yes,  I've  taken  to  it  rather. 

Prattle.  I  say  —  writing 's  no  good.  What  do  you 
write? 

De  Reves.  Oh,  poetry. 

Prattle.  Poetry?  Good  Lord! 

De  Reves.  Yes,  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know. 

Prattle.  Good  Lord!  Do  you  make  any  money  by  it? 

De  Reves.  No.  Hardly  any. 

Prattle.  I  say  —  why  don't  you  chuck  it? 

De  Reves.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Some  people  seem  to  like 
my  stuff,  rather.  That's  why  I  go  on. 

Prattle.  I  'd  chuck  it  if  there 's  no  money  in  it. 

De  Reves.  Ah,  but  then  it's  hardly  in  your  line,  is  it? 
You  'd  hardly  approve  of  poetry  if  there  was  money  in  it. 

Prattle.  Oh,  I  don't  say  that.  If  I  could  make  as  much 
by  poetry  as  I  can  by  betting  I  don't  say  I  would  n't  try  the 
poetry  touch,  only  — 

De  Reves.  Only  what? 

Prattle.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  Only  there  seems  more 
sense  in  betting,  somehow. 

DeReves.  Well,  yes.  I  suppose  it's  easier  to  tell  what 
an  earthly  horse  is  going  to  do,  than  to  tell  what  Pegasus  — 

Prattle.  WTiat's  Pegasus? 

De  Reves.  Oh,  the  winged  horse  of  poets. 

Prattle.  I  say !  You  don't  believe  in  a  winged  horse,  do 
you? 


1^,0  FAIME  AND  TIIE   TOET 

De  Rev'es.  In  our  trade  we  believe  in  all  fabulous  things. 
They  all  represent  some  large  truth  to  turn  us.  An  emblem 
like  Pegasus  is  as  real  a  thing  to  a  poet  as  a  Derby  winner 
would  be  to  you. 

Prattle.  I  say.  (Give  me  a  cigarette.  Thanks.)  What? 
Then  you'd  believe  in  nymphs  and  fauns,  and  Pan,  and  all 
those  kind  of  birds? 

De  Reves.  Yes.  Yes.   In  all  of  them. 

Prattle.  Good  Lord! 

De  Reves.  You  believe  in  the  Lord  Mayor  of  London, 
don't  you? 

Prattle.  Yes,  of  course;  but  what  has  — 

De  Reves.  Four  million  people  or  so  made  him  Lord 
Mayor,  did  n't  they?  And  he  represents  to  them  the  wealth 
and  dignity  and  tradition  of  — 

Prattle.  Yes;  but,  I  say,  what  has  all  this  — 

De  Rf:ves.  Well,  he  stands  for  an  idea  to  them,  and  they 
made  him  Lord  ^layor,  and  so  he  is  one.  .  .  . 

Pr.\ttle.  Well,  of  course  he  is. 

De  Reves.  In  the  same  way  Pan  has  been  made  what  he 
is  by  millions;  by  millions  to  whom  he  represents  world-old 
traditions. 

Prattle  {rising  from  his  chair  and  stepping  backwards, 
laughing  a7id  looking  at  the  Poet  in  a  kind  of  assumed  icon- 
der).  I  say  ...  I  say  .  .  .  You  old  heathen  .  .  .  but 
Good  Lord  .  .  . 

(He  bumps  into  the  high  screen  behind,  pushing  it  back  a 
little.) 

De  Reves.  Look  out!  Look  out! 

Prattle.  What?  What's  the  matter? 

De  Reves.  The  screen! 

Prattle.  Oh,  sorry,  yes.   I'll  put  it  right. 

(He  is  about  to  go  round  behind  it.) 

De  Reves.  No,  don't  go  round  there. 


FAME  AND  THE  POET  137 

Prattle.  What?  '\^^ly  not? 

De  Reves.  Oh,  you  would  n't  understand. 

Prattle.  Would  n't  understand?  Why,  what  have  you 
got? 

De  Reves.  Oh,  one  of  those  things  .  .  ,  You  would  n't 
understand. 

Prattle.  Of  course  I  'd  understand.  Let 's  have  a  look. 
{The  Poet  loalks  toward  Prattle  and  the  screen.  He 
protests  no  further.  Prattle  looks  round  the  corner 
of  the  screen.)  An  altar. 

De  Reves  (removing  the  screen  altogether).   That  is  all. 
What  do  you  make  of  it? 

(An  altar  of  Greek  design,  shaped  like  a  pedestal,  is  re- 
vealed. Papers  litter  the  floor  all  about  it.) 

Prattle.  I  say  —  you  always  were  an  untidy  devil. 

De  Reves.  Well,  what  do  you  make  of  it? 

Prattle.  It  reminds  me  of  your  room  at  Eton. 

De  Reves.  My  room  at  Eton? 

Prattle.  Yes,  you  always  had  papers  all  over  your 
floor. 

De  Reves.  Oh,  yes  — 

Prattle.  And  what  are  these? 

De  Reves.  All  these  are  poems;  and  this  is  my  altar  to 
Fame. 

Prattle.  To  Fame? 

De  Reves.  The  same  that  Homer  knew. 

Prattle.  Good  Lord! 

De  Reves.  Keats  never  saw  her.  Shelley  died  too  young. 
She  came  late  at  the  best  of  times,  now  scarcely  ever. 

Prattle.  But,  my  dear  fellow,  you  don't  mean  that  you 
think  there  really  is  such  a  person? 

De  Reves.  I  offer  all  my  songs  to  her. 

Prattle.  But  you  don't  mean  you  think  you  could  actu- 
ally see  Fame? 


138  FAME  AND  THE  POET 

De  Reves.  We  poets  personify  abstract  things,  and  not 
poets  only  but  sculptors  and  painters  too.  All  the  great 
things  of  the  world  are  those  abstract  things. 

Prattle.  But  what  I  mean  is  they're  not  really  there, 
like  you  or  me. 

De  Reves.  To  us  these  things  are  more  real  than  men, 
they  outlive  generations,  they  watch  the  passing  of  King- 
doms: we  go  by  them  like  dust;  they  are  still  here,  un- 
moved, unsmiling. 

Prattle.  But,  but,  you  can't  think  that  you  could  see 
Fame,  you  don't  expect  to  see  it. 

De  Reves.  Not  to  me.  Never  to  me.  She  of  the  golden 
trumpet  and  Greek  dress  will  never  appear  to  me.  .  .  . 
We  all  have  our  dreams. 

Prattle.  I  say  —  what  have  you  been  doing  all  day? 

De  Reves.  I?  Oh,  only  writing  a  sonnet. 

Prattle.  Is  it  a  long  one? 

De  Reves.  Not  very. 

Prattle.  About  how  long  is  it? 

De  Reves.  About  fourteen  lines. 

Prattle  (impressively).  I  tell  you  what  it  is. 

De  Reves.  Yes? 

Prattle.  I  tell  you  what.  You've  been  overworking 
yourself.  I  once  got  like  that  on  board  the  Sandluirst, 
working  for  the  passing-out  exam.  I  got  so  bad  that  I  could 
have  seen  anything. 

De  Reves.  Seen  anything? 

Prattle.  Lord, yes :  horned  pigs,  snakes  with  wings,  any- 
thing, one  of  your  winged  horses  even.  They  gave  me  some 
stuff  called  bromide  for  it.   You  take  a  rest. 

De  Reves.  But  my  dear  fellow,  you  don't  understand  at 
all.  I  merely  said  that  abstract  things  are  to  a  poet  as  near 
and  real  and  visible  as  one  of  your  bookmakers  or  barmaids. 

Prattle.  I  know.  You  take  a  rest. 


FAME  AND  THE  POET  139 

De  Reves.  Well,  perhaps  I  will.  I  'd  come  with  you  to 
that  musical  comedy  you're  going  to  see,  only  I'm  a  bit 
tired  after  wTiting  this ;  it 's  a  tedious  job.  I  '11  come  another 
night. 

Prattle.  How  do  you  know  I  'm  going  to  see  a  musical 
comedy? 

De  Reves.  Well,  where  would  you  go?  Hamlet's  on  at 
the  Lord  Chamberlain's.  You're  not  going  there. 
Prattle.  Do  I  look  like  it? 
De  Reves.  No. 

Prattle.  Well,  you're  quite  right.  I'm  going  to  see 
"  The  Girl  from  Bedlam.  "  So  long.  I  must  push  off  now. 
It's  getting  late.  You  take  a  rest.  Don't  add  another  line 
to  that  sonnet;  fourteen 's  quite  enough.  You  take  a  rest. 
Don't  have  any  dinner  to-night,  just  rest.  I  was  like  that 
once  myself.  So  long. 
De  Reves.  So  long. 

{Exit  Prattle.  De  Reves  returns  to  his  table  and  sits 
dovm.) 
Good  old  Dick.  He 's  the  same  as  ever.  Lord,  how  time 
passes. 

{He  takes  his  pen  and  his  sonnet  and  makes  a  few  alter- 
ations.) 
Well,  that 's  finished.   I  can't  do  any  more  to  it. 

{He  rises  and  goes  to  the  screen;  he  draws  back  part  of  it 

and  goes  up  to  the  altar.  He  is  about  to  place  his  sonnet 

reverently  at  the  foot  of  the  altar  amongst  his  other 

verses.) 

No,  I  will  not  put  it  there.  This  one  is  worthy  of  the  altar. 

{He  places  the  sonnet  upon  the  altar  itself.) 

If  that  sonnet  does  not  give  me  Fame,  nothing  that  I  have 

done  before  will  give  it  to  me,  nothing  that  I  ever  will  do. 

{He  replaces  the  screen  and  returns  to  his  chair  at  the 

table.  Tvnlight  is  coming  on.  He  sits  with  his  elbow  on 


140  FAME  AND  THE  POET 

the  table,  his  head  on  his  hand,  or  however  the  actor 

pleases.) 
Well,  well.  Fancy  seeing  Dick  again.  Well,  Dick  enjoys 
his  life,  so  he's  no  fool.  WTiat  was  that  he  said?  "There 'sno 
money  in  poetry.  You  'd  better  chuck  it."  Ten  years'  work 
and  what  have  I  to  show  for  it?  The  admiration  of  men  who 
care  for  poetry,  and  how  many  of  them  are  there?  There 's  a 
bigger  demand  for  smoked  glasses  to  look  at  echpses  of  the 
sun.  Why  should  Fame  come  to  me?  Have  n't  I  given  up 
my  daj' s  for  her?  That  is  enough  to  keep  her  away.  I  am  a 
poet;  that  is  enough  reason  for  her  to  slight  me.  Proud  and 
aloof  and  cold  as  marble,  what  does  Fame  care  for  us?  Yes, 
Dick  is  right.  It's  a  poor  game  chasing  illusions,  hunting 
the  intangible,  pursuing  dreams.  Dreams?  ^^^ly,  we  are 
ourselves  dreams.    {He  leans  back  in  his  chair.) 

We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

(He  is  silent  for  a  while.  Suddcnlif  he  lifts  his  head.) 
My  room  at  Eton,  Dick  said.   An  untidy  mess. 

{As  he  lifts  his  head  and  says  these  2cords,  twilight  gives 

place  to  broad  daylight,  merely  as  a  hint  that  the  author 

of  the  play  may  have  been  mistaken,  and  the  whole 

thing  may  have  been  no  more  than  a  poet's  dream.) 

So  it  was,  and  it's  an  untidy  mess  there  {looking  at  screeji) 

too.    Dick's  right.    I'll  tidy  it  up.    I'll  burn  the  whole 

damned  heap.  {lie  advances  impetuously  toward  the  screen.) 

Every  damned  poem  that  I  was  ever  fool  enough  to  waste 

my  time  on. 

{He  pushes  back  the  screen.  Fame  in  a  Greek  dress  with  a 
long  golden  trumpet  in  her  hand  is  seen  standing  mo- 
iioulcss  on  the  altar  like  a  marble  goddess.) 
So  .  .  .  vou  have  come! 


FAME  AND  THE  POET  141 

(For  a  while   he   stands  thunderstruck.   Then  he  ap- 
proaches the  altar.) 
Divine  fair  lady,  you  have  come, 

(He  holds  up  his  hands  to  her  and  leads  her  down  from 
the  altar  and  into  the  centre  of  the  stage.  At  whatever 
moment  the  actor  finds  it  most  convenienty  he  repossesses 
himself  of  the  sonnet  that  he  had  placed  on  the  altar. 
He  now  offers  it  to  F.^ie.) 
This  is  my  sonnet.  Is  it  well  done? 

(Fame  talces  it,  reads  it  in  silence,  while  the  Poet 
watches  her  rapturously. 
Fame.  You're  a  bit  of  all  right. 
DEPtEVES.  What? 
Fajme.  Some  poet. 

De  Reves.  I  —  I  —  scarcely  .  .  .  understand. 
Faaie.  You're  it. 

De  Reves.  But  ...  it  is  not  possible  .  .  .  are  you 
she  that  knew  Homer? 

Fame.  Homer?  Lord,  yes.  Blind  old  bat, 'e  could  n't  see 
a  yard. 
De  Reves.  O  Heavens ! 

(Fame  walks  beautifully  to  the  window.  She  opens  it  and 
puts  her  head  out.) 
Fame  (m  a  voice  with  which  a  woman  in  an  upper  story 
7vould  cry  for  help  if  the  house  was  well  alight).  Hi!  Hi! 
Boys!  Hi!  Say,  folks!  Hi! 

(The  murmur  of  a  gathering  crowd  is  heard.  Fame  blows 
her  trumpet.) 
Fame.  Hi,  he's  a  poet.     (Quickly,  over  her  shoulder.) 
What's  your  name? 
De  Reves.  De  Reves. 
Faaie.  His  name's  de  Reves. 
De  Reves.  Harry  de  Reves. 
Fame.  His  pals  call  him  Harry. 


142  FAME  AND  THE  POET 

The  Crowd.  Hooray!  Hooray!  Hooray! 

Fame.  Say,  what's  your  favourite  color? 

De  Reve:s.  I  ...  I  ...  I  don't  quite  understand. 

Fame.  Well,  which  do  you  like  best,  green  or  blue? 

De  Reves.  Oh  —  er  —  blue.    (She  bloirs  her  trumpet  out 
of  the  ivindoiv.)   No  —  er  —  I  think  green. 

Fame.  Green  is  his  favourite  colour. 

The  Crowd.  Hooray!  Hooray!  Hooray! 

Fame.  'Ere,  tell  us  something.   They  want  to  know  all 
about  yer. 

De  Reves.  Would  n't  you  perhaps  .  .  .  would  they 
care  to  hear  my  sonnet,  if  you  would  —  er  .  .  . 

Fame  (picking  up  quill).  Here,  what's  this? 

De  Reves.  Oh,  that's  my  pen. 

Fame  (after  another  blast  on  her  trumpet).  He  writes  with 
a  quill.  (Cheers  from  The  Crowd.) 

Fame  (going  to  a  cupboard).  Here,  what  have  you  got  in 
here? 

De  Reves.  Oh  .  .  .  er  .  .  .  those  are  my  breakfast 
things. 

Fa.me  (finding  a  dirty  plate).  What  have  yer  had  on  this 
one? 

De  Reves  (mournfully).  Oh,  eggs  and  bacon. 

Fame  (at  the  window).  He  has  eggs  and  liacon  for  l)reak- 
fast. 

The  Crowd.  Hip  hip  hip  hooray! 

Hip  hip  hip  hooray! 

Hip  hip  hip  hooray! 

Famp:.  Hi,  and  what's  this? 

De  Reves  (miserably).  Oh,  a  golf  stick. 

Fame.  He's  a  man's  man!   He's  a  virile  man!   He's  a 
manly  man! 

{Wild  cheers  from  The  Crowd,  //tw  time  only  from 
women's  voices.) 


FAME  AND  THE  POET  143 

De  Reves.  Oh,  this  is  terrible.  This  is  terrible.  This  is 
terrible. 

(Fame  gives  another  peal  on  her  horn.   She  is  about  to 
speak.) 
De  Reves  (solemnly  and  mournfully).  One  moment,  one 
moment  .  .  . 
Fame.  Well,  out  with  it. 

De  Reves.  For  ten  years,  divine  lady,  I  have  worshipped 
you,  offering  all  my  songs  ...  I  find  ...  I  find  I  am  not 
worthy  .  .  . 
Fame.  Oh,  you're  all  right. 

De  Reves.  No,  no,  I  am  not  worthy.  It  cannot  be.  It 
cannot  possibly  be.  Others  deserve  you  more.  I  must  say 
it !  I  cannot  possibly  love  you.  Others  are  worthy.  You  will 
find  others.  But  I,  no,  no,  no.  It  cannot  be.  It  cannot  be. 
Oh,  pardon  me,  but  it  must  not. 

{Meanwhile  Fame  has  been  lighting  one  of  his  cigarettes. 
She  sits  in  a  comfortable  chair,  leans  right  back,  and 
puts  her  feet  right  up  on  the  table  amongst  the  poet's 
papers.) 
Oh,  I  fear  I  offend  you.  But  —  it  cannot  be. 

Fame.  Oh,  that's  all  right,  old  bird;  no  offence.  I  ain't 
going  to  leave  you. 
De  Reves.  But  —  but  —  but  —  I  do  not  understand. 
Fame.  I  've  come  to  stay,  I  have. 

{She  blows  a  puff  of  smoke  through  her  trumpet.) 

[Cuhtain] 


THE   CAPTAIN   OF  THE   GATE' 

BEULAH  MARIE  DIX 

SCENE:  In  the  cheerless  hour  before  the  dawn  of  a  net 
spring  morning  fire  gentlemen-troopers  of  the  broken 
Royalist  army,  fagged  and  outworn  irilh  three  long  days 
of  siege,  are  holding,  uith  what  strength  and  courage  are 
left  them,  the  Gatehouse  of  the  Bridge  of  Cashala,  tvhich  is 
the  key  to  the  road  that  leads  into  Connaught.  The  upper 
chamber  of  the  Gatehouse,  in  which  they  make  their 
stand,  is  a  narrow,  dim-lit  apartment,  built  of  stone. 
At  one  side  is  a  swaU  fireplace,  and  be.nde  it  a  narrow, 
barred  door,  which  leads  to  the  stairhead.  At  the  end  of 
the  room,  gained  by  a  single  raised  step,  are  three  slit- 
like icindoivs,  breast-high,  designed,  as  now  used,  for 
defense  in  time  of  war.  The  room  is  meagrely  furnished, 
with  a  table  on  which  are  powder-flask,  touch-box,  etc., 
for  charging  guns,  a  stool  or  two,  and  an  open  keg  of 
powder.  The  whole  look  of  the  place,  bare  and  martial, 
but  depressed,  bespeaks  a  losing  fight.  On  the  hearth  the 
ashes  of  afire  are  irhite,  and  on  the  chimneypiece  a  brace 
of  candles  are  guttering  out. 

The  five  men  who  hold  the  Gatehouse  \cear  much  soHed 
and  torn  military  dress.  Th<'y  are  pale,  powder-begrimed, 
sunken-eyed,  tcith  eiery  mark  of  weariness  of  body  and 

•  Includwl  by  ixrinission  of  the  author  and  of  Messrs.  Henry  Holt  nnd 
Compnny.  f  hi-  publishers,  from  tlic  volume  AUison's  ImJ  and  Other  ilar^ 
tiaiJiitcrludej.  lUlU). 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE  145 

soul.  Their  leader,  John  Talbot,  is  standing  at  one 
of  the  shot-windows,  with  piece  presented,  looking  forth. 
He  is  in  his  mid-twenties,  of  Norman-Irish  blood,  and 
distinctly  of  a  finer,  more  nervous  type  than  his  compan- 
ions. He  has  been  wounded,  and  bears  his  left  hand 
wrapped  in  a  bloody  rag.  Dick  Fenton,  a  typical,  care- 
less young  English  swashbuckler,  sits  by  the  table,  charg- 
ing a  musket,  and  singing  beneath  his  breath  as  he  does 
so.  He,  too,  has  been  wounded,  and  bears  a  bandage 
about  his  knee.  Upon  the  floor  (at  right)  Kit  New- 
combe  lies  in  the  sleep  of  utter  exhaustion.  He  is  an 
English  lad,  in  his  teens,  a  mere  tired,  haggard  child, 
with  his  head  rudely  bandaged.  On  a  stool  by  the  hearth 
sits  Myles  Butler,  a  man  of  John  Talbot's  own 
years,  but  a  slower,  heavier,  almost  sullen  type.  Beside 
him  kneels  Phelimy  Driscoll,  a  nervous,  dark  Irish 
lad,  of  one  and  twenty.  He  is  resting  his  injured  arm 
across  Butler's  knee,  and  Butler  is  roughly  bandaging 
the  hurt. 

For  a  moment  there  is  a  weary,  heavy  silence,  in  which 
the  words  of  the  song  which  Fenton  sings  are  audible. 
It  is  the  doleful  old  strain  of  "the  hanging-tune." 

Fenton  (singing). 

Fortune,  my  foe,  why  dost  thou  frown  on  me. 
And  will  thy  favors  never  greater  be? 
Wilt  thou,  I  say,  forever  breed  me  pain. 
And  wUt  thou  not  restore  my  joys  again? 

Butler  (shifting  Driscoll's  arm,  none  too  tenderly). 
More  to  the  light! 

Driscoll  (catching  breath  with  pain) .  Ah !  Softly,  Myles ! 
JouN  Talbot  {leaning  forward  tensely) .  Ah! 
Fenton.  Jack!  Jack  Talbot!  What  is  it  that  you  see? 
John  Talbot  (with  the  anger  of  a  man  whose  nerves  are 
11 


146  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE 

strained  almost  beyond  endurance).  What  should  I  see  hut 
Cromwell's  watch-fires  along  the  boreen?  What  else  should 
I  see,  and  the  night  as  black  as  the  mouth  of  hell?  What 
else  should  I  see,  and  a  pest  choke  your  throat  with  your 
fool's  questions,  Dick  Fenton! 

{Resumes  his  watch.) 
Fenton  {as  trho  should  say:  "I  thank  you  I").  God  'a* 
mercy  —  Captain  Talbot! 

{Resumes  his  singing.) 
Driscoll.  God's  love!    I  bade  ye  have  a  care,  Myles 
Butler. 

Butler  {tying  the  last  bandage).  It's  a  stout  heart  you 
have  in  you,  Phclimy  Driscoll  —  you  to  be  crying  out  for  a 
scratch.  It 's  better  you  would  have  been,  you  and  the  like 
of  you,  to  be  stopping  at  home  with  your  mother. 

{Rises  and  takes  up  his  musket  from  the  corner  by  the 
fireplace.) 
Driscoll.  You  —  you  dare  —  you  call  me  —  coward? 
Ye  black  liar!  I'll  lesson  ye!  I'll  — 

{Tries  to  rise,  but  in  the  ejfort  sways  weakly  forward  and 

rests  with  his  head  upon  the  stool  ichich  Butler  has 

quitted.) 

Butler.  A'  Heaven's  name,  ha'  done  with  that  hanging 

tune!    Ha*  done,  Dick  Fenton!    We're  not  yet  at  the 

gallows'  foot. 

{Joins  John  Talbot  at  the  shot-windows.) 
Fenton.  Nay,  Myles,  for  us  't  is  like  to  be  nothing  half 
so  merry  as  the  gallows. 

Butler.  Hold  your  fool's  tongue! 
Newcombe  {crying  out  in  his  sUrp).  Oh  I  Oh ! 
John  Talbot.  What  was  that? 

Fenton.  '  T  was  naught  i)ut  young  Newcombe  that  cried 
out  in  the  clutch  of  a  nightmare. 

BiTLKR.  'Tis  time  Kit  Newcombe  rose  and  stood  his 
watch. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE  147 

John  Talbot  (leaving  the  vrindow) .  Nay, '  t  is  only  a  boy. 
Let  him  sleep  while  he  can !  Let  him  sleep ! 

Butler.  Tm'n  and  turn  at  the  watch,  'tis  but  fair.  Stir 
yonder  sluggard  awake,  Dick! 

Fenton.  Aye.  (Starts  to  rise.) 

John  Talbot.  Who  gives  commands  here?  Sit  you 
down,  Fenton!  To  your  place,  Myles  Butler! 

Butler.  Captain  of  the  Gate !  D'ye  mark  the  high  tone 
of  him,  Dick? 

John  Talbot  (tying  a  fresh  bandage  about  his  hand). 
You  're  out  there,  Myles.  There  is  but  one  Captain  of  the 
Gate  of  Connaught  —  he  who  set  me  here  —  my  cousin, 
Hugh  Talbot. 

Butler  (muttering).  Aye,  and  it's  a  deal  you'll  need  to 
be  growing,  ere  you  fill  Hugh  Talbot's  shoes. 

John  Talbot.  And  that 's  a  true  word !  But  'twas  Hugh 
Talbot's  will  that  I  should  command,  here  at  the  Bridge  of 
Cashala.  And  as  long  as  breath  is  in  me  I  — 

Driscoll  (raising  his  head  heavily).  Water!  Water! 
Myles!  Dick!  Will  ye  give  me  to  drink,  lads?  Jack  Talbot! 
I  'm  choked  wi'  thirst. 

John  Talbot.  There's  never  a  drop  of  water  left  us, 
Phelimy,  lad. 

Fenton.  Owen  Bourke  drained  the  last  of  it,  God  rest 
him! 

Butler.  'Tis  likely  our  clever  new  Captain  of  the  Gate 
^\-ill  hit  on  some  shift  to  fill  om*  empty  casks. 

(Driscoll  rises  heavily.) 

John  Talbot.  Not  the  new  Captain  of  the  Gate.  The 
old  Captain  of  the  Gate  —  Hugh  Talbot.  He  '11  be  here  this 
day  —  this  hour,  maybe. 

Fenton.  That  tale  grows  something  old.  Jack  Talbot. 

John  Talbot.  He  swore  he  'd  bring  us  succor.  He  — 
(Driscoll  tries  to  unbar  the  exit  door.) 


148  THE   CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE 

Driscoll!  Are  you  gone  mad?  Stand  you  back  from  that 
door! 

{Thrusts  Driscoll  from  the  door.) 

Dribcoll  (half  delirious).  Let  me  forth!  The  spring  — 
'tis  just  below  —  there  on  the  river-bank!  Let  me  slip 
down  to  it  —  but  a  moment  —  and  drink! 

John  Talbot.  Cromwfll's  soldiers  hold  the  spring. 

Driscoll.  I  care  not!  Let  me  forth  and  drink!  Let  me 
forth ! 

John  Talbot.  'T  would  be  to  your  death. 

Butler.  And  what  will  he  get  but  his  death  if  he  stay 
here.  Captain  Talbot? 

Driscoll  (struggling  tcith  John  Talbot).  I'm  choked! 
I  'm  choked,  I  tell  ye !  Let  me  go.  Jack  Talbot !  Let  me  go ! 

Newcombe  (still  half-asleep,  rises  to  his  knees,  tcith  a 
terrible  cry,  and  his  groping  hands  iipthrust  to  guard  his  head). 
God's  pity!  No!  no!  no! 

Driscoll  (shocked  into  sanity,  staggers  back,  crossing 
himself).  God  shield  us! 

Butler.  Silence  that  whelp! 

Fenton.  Clear  to  the  rebel  camp  they'll  hear  him! 

John  Talbot  (catching  Newcombe  by  the  shoulder). 
Newcombe!   Kit  Newcombe! 

Newcombe.  Ah,  God!  Keep  them  from  me !  Keep  them 
from  me! 

John  Talbot.  Ila'  done!  ILi'  done! 

Newcombe.  Not  that!  Not  the  butt  of  the  muskefs! 
Not  that!    Not  that! 

John  Talbot  (stifling  Newcombe's  outcry  with  a  hand 
upon  his  mouth).   Wake!  You're  dreaming! 

Driscoll.  'T  is  ill  luck!  'T  is  ill  luck  comes  of  such 
dreaming! 

Newcombe.  Drogheda!  I  dnaincd  I  was  at  Droghcd;i, 
where   my  brother — my   brother  —  they  beat   out  Wis 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE  149 

brains  —  Cromwell's  men  —  with  their  clubbed  muskets  — 
they  — 

(Clings  shuddering  to  John  Talbot.) 

Fenton.  English  officers  that  serve  amongst  the  Irish  — 
't  is  thus  that  Cromwell  uses  them ! 

Butler.  English  officers  —  aye,  like  ourselves ! 

John  Talbot.  Be  quiet,  Kit !  You  're  far  from  Drogheda 
—  here  at  the  Bridge  of  Cashala. 

Butler.  Aye,  safe  in  Cashala  Gatehouse,  with  five  hun- 
dred of  Cromwell's  men  sitting  down  before  it. 

John  Talbot.  Keep  your  watch,  Butler ! 

Newcombe.  You  give  orders?  You  still  command.  Jack? 
Where's  Captain  Talbot,  then? 

{Snatches  up  his  sword  and  rises.) 

Butler  (quitting  the  window).  Aye,  where  is  Captain 
Talbot? 

John  Talbot.  You  say  — 

Fenton  (rising).  We  all  say  it, 

John  Talbot.  Even  thou,  Dick? 

Driscoll.  He  does  not  come!  Hugh  Talbot  does  not 
come ! 

Fenton.  He  bade  us  hold  the  bridge  one  day.  We've 
held  it  three  days  now. 

Butler.  And  where  is  Hugh  Talbot  with  the  aid  he 
promised? 

John  Talbot.  He  promised.  He  has  never  broken  faith. 
He  will  bring  us  aid. 

Fenton.  Aye,  if  he  be  living! 

Driscoll.  Living?  You  mean  that  he — Och,  he 's  dead ! 
Hugh  Talbot's  dead!  And  we're  destroyed!  We're  de- 
stroyed ! 

Newcombe  (cowering).  The  butt  of  the  muskets! 

Fenton.  God! 

(Deliberately  Butler  lays  down  his  musket.) 


150  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE 

John  Talbot.  Take  up  your  piece! 

Butler.  Renounce  me  if  I  do! 

Fenton.  I  stand  with  you,  Myles  Butler.  Make  terms 
for  us,  John  Talbot,  or,  on  my  soul,  we  Ml  make  them  for  our- 
selves. 

John  Talbot.  Surrender? 

Newcombe.  Will  Cromwell  spare  us,  an  we  yield  our- 
selves now?   Will  he  spare  us?   Will  he  — 

Fenton.  'T  is  our  one  chance. 

Newcombe.  Give  me  that  white  rag! 

(Crosses  and  snatches  a  bandage  from  chimney  piece.) 

Fenton  (drawing  his  ramrod).  Here's  a  staff! 

(Together  Fenton  and  Newcombe  make  ready  a  flag  of 
truce.) 

John  Talbot  (struggling  with  Butler  and  Driscoll). 
A  black  curse  on  you ! 

Butler.  We'll  not  be  butchered  like  oxen  in  the 
shambles ! 

John  Talbot.  Your  oaths! 

Butler.  We'll  not  fight  longer  to  \)o  knocked  on  the 
head  at  the  last. 

Newcombe.  No!  No!  Not  that!  Out  with  the  flag, 
Dick! 

Fenton.  A  light  here  at  the  grating! 

(Newcombe  turns  to  take  a  candle,  obedient  to  Fenton's 
order.  At  that  moment,  close  at  hand,  a  bugle  sounds.) 

John  Talbot.  Hark! 

Dulscoll.  The  bugle!  They're  upon  us  I 

Butler  (releasing  his  hold  on  John  Talbot).  What  was 
thnt? 

John  Talbot.  You  swore  to  hold  the  bridge. 

Butler.  Swore  to  hold  it  one  day.  We've  held  it  three 
days  now. 

Fenton.  Ami  the  half  of  us  arc  slain. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE  151 

Newcombe.  And  we've  no  water  —  and  no  food! 

John  Talbot  (pointing  to  the  potvder-keg) .  We  have  pow- 
der in  plenty. 

Driscoll.  We  can't  drink  powder.  Ah,  for  God's  love, 
be  swift,  Dick  Fenton !  Be  swift ! 

John  Talbot.  You  shall  not  show  that  white  flag! 

(Starts  toward  Fenton,  hand  on  sword.) 

Butler  (pinioning  John  Talbot).    God's  death!   We 
yhall !  Help  me  here,  Phelimy ! 

John  Talbot.  A  summons  to  parley.  What  see  you, 
Fenton? 

Fenton  (at  the  shot-window).  Torches  coming  from  the 
boreen,  and  a  white  flag  beneath  them.  I  can  see  the  faces. 

(With  a  cry) 
Look,  Jack !  A'  God's  name !  Look ! 

(John  Talbot  springs  to  the  window.) 

Driscoll.  What  is  it  you're  seeing? 

Fenton.  It  is  — 

John  Talbot  (turning  from  the  window).  'T  is  Hugh  Tal- 
bot comes !  'T  is  the  Captain  of  the  Gate ! 

Butler.  With  them?  A  prisoner? 

John  Talbot.  No,  no!    No  prisoner!    He  wears  his 
sword. 

(Butler  snatches  up  his  piece  and  resumes  watch.) 

Fenton.  Then  he  '11  have  made  terms  with  them !  Terms ! 

Newcombe  (embracing  Driscoll).  Terms  for  us!  Terms 
for  us! 

John  Talbot.  I  told  ye  truth.    He  has  come.    Hugh 
Talbot  has  come. 

(Goes  to  door.) 

Hugh  Talbot  (speaks  outside).    Open!    I  come  alone, 
and  in  peace.  Open  unto  me! 

John  Talbot.  Who  goes  there? 

Hugh  Talbot  (outside).  The  Captain  of  the  Gate! 


152  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE 

(John  Talbot  unhars  the  door,  and  bars  it  again  upon 
the  entrance  of  Hugh  Talbot.  The  latter  cojnes 
slowly  into  the  room.  lie  is  a  man  in  his  late  thirties,  a 
tall,  martial  figure,  clad  in  much-worn  velvet  and 
leather,  with  sword  at  side.  The  five  salute  him  as  he 
enters.) 
Hugh  Talbot  {halts  and  for  a  moment  surreys  his  follow- 
ers). Well,  lads? 

{The  five  stand  trembling  on  the  edge  of  a  nervous  break, 
unable  for  the  moment  to  speak.) 
Newcombe.  "We  thought  —  we  thought  —  that  you  — 
that  you  — 

{Breaks  into  childish  sobbing.) 
Fenton.  What  terms  will  they  grant  us,  sir? 
John  Talbot.  Sir,  we  have  held  the  bridge. 
Hugh  Talbot.  You  five  — 

John  Talbot.  Bourke  is  dead,  sir,  and  Tregarris,  and 
Langdale,  and  —  and  James  Talbot,  my  brother. 

Driscoll.  And  we've  had  no  water,  sir,  these  many 
hours. 
Hugh  Talbot.  So!  You're  wounded,  Phelimy. 
Driscoll.  'T  is  not  worth  heeding,  sir. 
Hugh  Talbot.  Kit!  Kit! 

{At  the  voice  Newcombe  pulls  himself  together.) 
A  light  here!  Dick,  you've  your  pouch  under  your  hand? 
Fenton.  'T  is  here,  sir. 

{Offers  his  tobacco  pouch.) 
Hugh  Talbot  {filling  his  pipe).    L<^ave  the  window, 
Myles!   They've  promised  us  a  half  hour's  truce  —  and 
Cromwell's  a  man  of  his  word. 

Newcombe  {bringing  a  lighted  candle).   He'll  let  us  j)ass 
free  now,  sir,  will  he  not? 

Hugh  Talbot  {lighting  his  pipe  at  ike  candle).    You're 
not  afraid,  Kit? 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE  153 

Newcombe.  I?  Faith,  no,  sir.  No!  Not  now! 

Hugh  Talbot.  Sit  ye  down,  Phelimy,  lad!  You  look 
dead  on  your  feet.  Give  me  to  see  that  arm ! 

{As  Hugh  Talbot  starts  toward  Driscoll,  his  eye 
falls  on  the  open  keg  of  powder.  He  draws  back  hast- 
ily,  covering  his  lighted  pipe.) 

Jack  Talbot !  "VMio  taught  ye  to  leave  your  powder  un- 
covered, where  lighted  match  was  laid? 

Butler.  My  blame,  sir. 

(Covers  the  keg.) 

John  Talbot.  We  opened  the  keg,  and  then  — 

Fenton.  Truth,  we  did  not  cover  it  again,  being  some- 
what pressed  for  time. 

(The  five  laugh,  half  hysterically.) 

Hugh  Talbot  (sitting  by  fire).  And  you  never  thought, 
maybe,  that  in  that  keg  there  was  powder  enough  to  blow 
the  bridge  of  Cashala  to  hell? 

John  Talbot.  It  seemed  a  matter  of  small  moment, 
sir. 

Hugh  Talbot.  Small  moment!  Powder  enough,  put 
case  ye  set  it  there,  at  the  stairhead  —  d'ye  follow  me?  — 
powder  enough  to  make  an  end  of  Cashala  Bridge  for  all 
time  —  aye,  and  of  all  within  the  Gatehouse.  You  never 
thought  on  that,  eh? 

John  Talbot.  We  had  so  much  to  think  on,  sir. 

Hugh  Talbot.  I  did  suspect  as  much.  So  I  came  hither 
to  recall  the  powder  to  your  minds. 

Driscoll.  We  thought  — 

(Butler  motions  him  to  be  silent.) 
We  thought  maybe  you  would  not  be  coming  at  all,  sir. 
Maybe  you  would  be  dead. 

Hugh  Talbot.  Well?  "VMiat  an  if  I  had  been  dead? 
You  had  yom*  orders.  You  did  not  dream  of  giving  up  the 
Bridge  of  Cashala  —  eh,  Myles  Butler? 


154  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE 

Butler  {offer  a  moment).  No,  sir. 

Hlgh  Talbot.  Nor  you,  Dick  Fenton? 

Fenton.  Sir,  I  —  No ! 

Hugh  T.\LBOT  {smoking  throughout).  Good  lads!  The 
wise  heads  were  saying  I  was  a  stark  fool  to  set  you  here  at 
Cashala.  But  I  said:  I  can  be  trusting  the  young  riders 
that  are  learning  their  lessons  in  war  from  me.  I  '11  be  safe 
I)utting  my  honor  into  their  hands.  And  I  was  right,  was  n't 
I,  Phelimy  DrisooU? 

Driscoll.  Give  us  the  chance,  sir,  and  we'll  be  holding 
Cashala,  even  against  the  devil  himself! 

Fenton.  Aye,  well  said ! 

Hugh  Talbot.  Sure,  'tis  a  passing  good  substitute  for 
the  devil  sits  yonder  in  Cromwell's  tent. 

Newcombe  {rcith  a  shudder).  Cromwell! 

Hugh  Talbot.  Aye,  he  was  slaying  your  brother  at 
Droghcda,  Kit,  and  a  fine,  gallant  lad  your  brother  was. 
And  I  'm  thinking  you  're  like  him,  Kit.  Else  I  should  n  't  be 
trusting  you  hero  at  Cashala. 

Newcombe.  I  —  I —  Will  they  let  us  keep  our  swords? 

Hugh  Talbot.  ^Ycll,  it 's  with  yourselves  it  lies,  whether 
you'll  keep  them  or  not. 

Fenton.  He  means  —  we  mean  —  on  what  terms,  sir, 
do  we  surrender? 

Hugh  Talbot.  Surrender?  Terms? 

John  Talbot.  Wo  thought,  sir,  from  your  coming  umlcr 
their  white  flag  —  perhaps  you  had  made  terms  for  us. 

Hugh  Talbot.  How  could  I  make  terms? 

Newcombe.  Captain! 

{At  a  look  from  Hugh  Talbot  he  becomes  silent,  fighting 
for  ,<fclf-control.) 

Hugh  Talbot.  How  could  I  make  tonus  tiiat  you  would 
hear  to?  Cashala  Bridge  is  the  gate  of  Connaught. 

John  Talbot.  Yes. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE  155 

Hugh  Talbot.  Give  Cromwell  Cashala  Bridge,  and 
he  '11  be  on  the  heels  of  our  women  and  our  little  ones.  At 
*what  price  would  ye  be  selling  their  safety? 

Driscoll.  Cromwell  —  when  he  takes  us  —  when  he 
takes  us  — 

Newcombe.  He  '11  knock  us  on  the  head ! 

Hugh  Talbot.  Yes.  At  the  last.  Your  five  lives  against 
our  people's  safety.  You'd  not  give  up  the  bridge? 

John  Talbot.  Five?  Our  five?  But  you  —  you  are  the 
sixth. 

Fenton.  You  stay  with  us.  Captain.  And  then  we'll 
fight  —  you  '11  see  how  we  shall  fight. 

Hugh  Talbot.  I  shall  be  seeing  you  fight,  perhaps,  but 
I  cannot  stay  now  at  Cashala. 

(Rises.) 

Driscoll.  Ye  won't  be  staying  with  us? 

Butler  (laughing  harshly).  Now,  on  my  soul!  Is  this 
your  faith,  Hugh  Talbot?  One  liar  I've  followed,  Charles 
Stuart,  the  son  of  a  liar,  and  now  a  second  liar  — 

John  Talbot  (catching  Butler's  throat) .  A  plague  choke 
you! 

Hugh  Talbot  (stepping  between  John  Talbot  and 
Butler).  Ha'  done.  Jack!  Ha'  done!  What  more,  Myles 
Butler? 

Butler.  Tell  us  whither  you  go,  when  you  turn  your 
back  on  us  that  shall  die  at  Cashala  —  you  that  come  walk- 
ing under  the  rebel  flag  —  that  swore  to  bring  us  aid  —  and 
have  not  brought  it !  Tell  us  whither  you  go  now ! 

Hugh  Talbot.  Well,  I  'm  a  shade  doubtful,  Myles,  my 
lad,  though  hopeful  of  the  best. 

Butler,  'T  is  to  Cromwell  you  go  —  you  that  have  made 
your  peace  with  him  —  that  have  sold  us  — 

Driscoll.  Captain!  A'  God's  name,  what  is  it  that 
you  're  meaning? 


156  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE 

HuGn  Talbot.  I  mean  that  you  shall  hold  the  Bridge  of 
Cashala  —  whatever  happen  to  yon  —  whatever  happen 
to  me  —  ^ 

Fenton.  To  you?  Captain  Talbot!  • 

Hugh  Talbot.  I  am  going  unto  Cromwell  —  as  you 
said,  Myles.   I  gave  my  promise. 

Driscoll.  Your  promise? 

John  Talbot.  We  —  have  been  very  blind.  So  —  they 
made  you  prisoner? 

Hugh  Talbot.  Aye,  Jack.  When  I  tried  to  cut  my  way 
tlirou<;h  to  bring  you  aid.  And  they  granted  me  this  half 
hour  on  my  parole  to  come  unto  you. 

John  Talbot.  To  come  — 

Hugh  Talbot.  To  counsel  you  to  surrender.  And  I 
have  given  you  counsel.  Hold  the  bridge!  Hold  it!  What- 
ever they  do ! 

Driscoll.  Captain!  Captain  Talbot!  God  of  Heaven! 
If  you  go  back  —  't  is  killed  you  '11  be  among  them  I 

Hugh  Talbot.  A  little  sooner  than  you  lads?  Aye,  true! 

Fenton.  They  cannot!  Even  Cromwell  — 

Hugh  Talbot.  Tut,  tut,  Dick!  It's  little  ye  know  of 
Cromwell. 

John  Talbot.  Then  —  you  mean  — 

Hugh  Talbot.  An  you  surrender  Cashala,  we  may  all 
six  pass  free.  An  you  hold  Cashala,  they  will  hang  me,  here 
before  your  eyes. 

(Driscoll  gives  a  rattling  cry.) 

Butler.  God  forgive  me! 

Hugh  Talbot.  You  have  your  orders.  Hold  the  bridge! 

{Turns  io  door.) 

John  Talbot  (barring  his  toay).  No,  no!  You  shan't  go 
forth! 

Fenton.  God's  mercy,  no! 

Hugh  Talbot.  .\re  vou  stark  crazed? 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  GATE  157 

<Fenton.  You  shall  stay  with  us. 
John  Talbot.  What 's  your  pledged  word  to  men  that 
know  not  honor? 

Hugh  Talbot.  My  word.  Unbar  the  door,  Jack.  Why, 
lad,  we  're  travelmg  the  same  road. 

Fenton.  God!  But  we'll  give  them  a  good  fight  at  the 
last. 

(Goes  to  the  shot-window.) 
Take  up  your  musket.  Kit. 

Newcombe.  But  I  —  Captain!    When  you  are  gone, 
I  — 1~ 
Hugh  Talbot.  I'll  not  be  far.  You'll  hold  the  bridge? 
John  Talbot.  Aye,  sir. 

Butler.  We  've  powder  enough  —  you  said  it,  sir,  — 
laid  there  at  the  stairhead,  to  blow  the  bridge  to  hell. 
Hugh  Talbot.  Aye,  Myles,  you've  hit  it! 

(Holds  out  his  hand.) 
Butler.  Not  yet,  sir ! 

Hugh  Talbot.  Hereafter,  then.    God  speed  you,  lads ! 
John  Talbot.  Speed  you,  sir ! 

(All  five  stand  at  salute  as  Htjgk  Talbot  goes  out.  In 
the  moment's  silence  upon  his  exit,  John  Talbot 
bars  the  door  and  turns  to  his  comrades.) 
You  have  —  Hugh  Talbot's  orders.   Take  your  pieces ! 
Driscoll!  Newcombe! 

{Obediently  the  two  join  Fenton  at  toindows.) 
Butler! 

Butler.  Aye!  We  have  Hugh  Talbot's  orders. 

(Points  to  powder-keg.) 
John  Talbot.  Are  you  meaning  — 
Butler.  It's  not  I  will  be  failing  him  now! 
Fenton  (at  window).  God!  They  waste  no  time. 
John  Talbot.  Already  —  they  have  dared  — 
Fenton.  Here  —  this  moment  —  under  our  very  eyes! 


158        THE  CArrAix  OF  thp:  gate 

Driscoll.  Christ  Jesus! 

{Goes  back  from  the  tcindow,  icith  his  arm  across  /n> 
eyes,  and  falls  on  his  knees  in  headlong  prayer.) 
John  Talbot.  Kit!  Kit  Newcomhcl 

(Motions  him  to  window.) 
Newcombe.  I  cannot !  I  — 

John  Talbot.  Look  forth!    Look!    And  remember  — 
when  you  meet  them  —  remember ! 

(Newcombe  stands  swaying,  clutching  at  the  grating  of 
the  icindow,  as  he  looks  forth.) 
Lads! 

(Motions  to  Butler  and  Fenton  to  carry  the  powder  to 
the  stairhead.) 
The  time  is  short.   His  orders! 

(Driscoll  raises  his  Iiead  and  gazes  fixedly  toward  the 
centre  of  the  room.) 
Fenton.  Yonder,  at  the  stairhead. 
Butler.  Aye. 

(Fenton  and  Butler  carry  the  keg  to  the  door.) 
Newcombe.  Not  that!  Not  that  death!  No!  No! 
John  Talbot.  Be  silent!    And  look  yonder!    Driscoll! 
Fetch  the  light !  Newcombe!  Come!  You  have  vour  places, 
all. 

Driscoll.  But,  Captain !  The  sixth  man  —  where  will 
the  si-xth  man  be  standing? 

(There  is  a  blank  silence,  in  ichich  the  men  look  (jues- 
tioningly  at  Driscoll's  rapt  face  and  at  one  another.) 
John  Talbot.  Sixth? 
Fenton.  What  sixth? 
Driscoll.  The  blind  eyes  of  ye!  Yonder! 

(Comes  to  the  salute,  crcn  a.?,  a  few  moments  before,  he 

has  saluted  IIrc;H  Talbot,  liring. 
Newco.mbe  gives  a  smothered  cry,  as  one  who  half  sees, 
and  takes  courage.   Fenton  dazedly  starts  to  salute. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE   GATE  159 

Oviside  a  bugle  sounds,  and  a  voice,  almost  at  the  door, 
is  heard  to  speak.) 
Voice  Outside.  For  the  last  time:  will  you  surrender 
you? 

John  Talbot  (in  a  loud  and  confident  voice).  No!  Not 
while  our  commander  stands  with  us ! 
Voice  Outside.  And  who  might  your  commander  be? 
John  Talbot.  Hugh  Talbot,  the  Captain  of  the  Gate ! 
The  light  here,  Phelimy. 

(John  Talbot  bends  to  set  the  candle  to  the  powder 
that  shall  destroy  Cashala  Gatehouse,  and  all  within  it. 
His  mates  are  gathered  round  him,  with  steady, 
bright  faces,  for  in  the  little  space  left  vacant  in  their 
midst  they  know  in  that  minute  that  Hugh  Talbot 
stands.) 

[Curtain] 


i 


GETTYSBURG' 

PERCY  MACKAYE 

SCENE:  A  woodshed,  in  the  ell  of  ajarm-house. 

The  shed  is  open  on  both  sides,  front  and  back,  the  aper- 
tures being  slightly  arched  at  the  top.  {In  bad  iccathcr, 
these  presumably  may  be  closed  by  big  double  doors, 
which  stand  open  now  —  swung  back  outward  beyond 
sight.)  Thus  the  nearer  opening  is  the  proscenium  arch 
of  the  scene,  under  which  the  spectator  looks  through  the 
shed  to  the  background  —  a  grassy  yard,  a  road  with 
great  trunks  of  soaring  elms,  and  the  glimpse  of  a  green 
hillside.  The  ceiling  runs  up  into  a  gable  with  large 
beams. 

On  the  right,  at  back,  a  door  opens  into  the  shed  from 
the  house  kitchen.  Opposite  it,  a  door  leads  from  the  shed 
into  the  bam.  In  the  foreground,  against  the  right  tcall, 
is  a  work-bench.  On  this  are  tools,  a  long,  narrow,  wooden 
box,  and  a  small  oil-store,  with  steaming  kettle  upon  it. 

Against  the  left  wall,  what  remains  of  the  years  wood 
supply  is  stacked,  the  uneven  ridges  sloping  to  a  jumble  of 
stove  wood  and  kindlings  mixed  with  small  chips  of  the 
floor,  which  is  piled  deep  iiyith  mounds  of  crumbling 
bark,  chips  and  wood-dust. 

Not  fur  from  this  mounded  pile,  at  right  centre  of  the 
scene,  stands  a  wooden  armchair,  in  which  Link  Tad- 
'  Copyright,  lUl^,  by  Percy  Mackaye.    All  rights  reserved. 


GETTYSBURG  161 

BOURNE,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  sits  drowsing.  Silhouetted 
by  the  sunlight  beyond,  his  sharp-drawn  profile  is  that  of 
an  old  man,  with  white  hair  cropped  close,  and  gray 
moustache  of  a  faded  black  hue  at  the  outer  edges.  Be- 
tween his  knees  is  a  stout  thong  of  wood,  whittled  round  by 
the  drawshave  which  his  sleeping  hand  still  holds  in  his 
lap.  Against  the  side  of  his  chair  rests  a  thick  wooden 
yoke  and  collar.  Near  him  is  a  chopping -block. 

In  the  woodshed  there  is  no  sound  or  motion  except  the 
hum  and  floating  steam  from  the  tea-kettle.  Presently  the 
old  man  murmurs  in  his  sleep,  clenching  his  hand. 
Slowly  the  hand  relaxes  again. 

From  the  door,  right,  comes  Polly  —  a  sweet-faced 
girl  of  seventeen,  quietly  mature  for  her  age.  She  is 
dressed  simply.  In  one  hand  she  carries  a  man's  wide- 
brimmed  felt  hat,  over  the  other  arm  a  blue  coat.  These 
she  brings  toward  Link.  Seeing  him  asleep,  she  begins  to 
tiptoe,  lays  the  coat  and  hat  on  the  chopping -block,  goes 
to  the  bench,  and  trims  the  wick  of  the  oil-stove,  under  the 
kettle.  Then  she  returns  and  stands  near  Link,  surveying 
the  shed. 

On  closer  scrutiny,  the  jumbled  woodpile  has  evidently  a 
certain  order  in  its  chaos;  some  of  the  splittings  have  been 
piled  in  irregular  ridges;  in  places,  the  deep  layer  of 
wood-dust  and  chips  has  been  scooped,  and  the  little 
mounds  slope  and  rise  like  miniature  valleys  and  hills. ^ 

Taking  up  a  hoe,  Polly  —  with  careful  steps  — 
moves  among  the  hollows,  placing  and  arranging  sticks  of 
kindling,  scraping  and  smoothing  the  little  mounds  with 
the  hoe.  As  she  does  so,  from  far  away,  a  bugle  sounds. 

1  A  suggestion  for  the  appropriate  arrangement  of  these  mounds  may 
be  found  in  the  map  of  the  battle-field  annexed  to  the  volume  by  Cap- 
tain R.  K.  Beecham,  entitled  Gettysburg  (A.  C.  McClurg,  1911). 


12 


162  GETTYSBURG 

Link 

{snapping  his  eyes  wide  open,  sits  up) 

Hello!  Cat-nappin'  was  I,  Polly? 

Polly 

Just 
A  kitten-nap,  I  guess. 

(Laying  the  hoe  down,  she  approaches.) 
The  yoke  done? 

liINK 

(giving  a  final  whittle  to  the  yoke-collar  thong) 

Thar! 
\Nlien  he's  ben  steamed  a  spell,  and  bended  snug, 
I  guess  this  feller '11  sarve  t'  say  "Gee"  to  — 

(Lifting  the  other  yoke-collar  from  beside  his  chair,  he 

holds  the  ivhittled  thong  next  to  it,  comparing  the  two 

with  expert  eye.) 
and  "Haw"  to  him.  Beech  every  time,  Sir;  beech 
or  walnut.  Hang  me  if  I'd  shake  a  whip 
at  birch,  for  ox-yokes.  —  Polly,  are  ye  thar? 

Polly 
Yes,  Uncle  Link. 

Link 

\N'hat's  that  I  used  to  sing  ye? 

"  Polly,  put  the  kittle  on, 
Polly,  put  tlic  kittle  on, 
Polly,  put  the  kittle  on  —  " 

(Chuckling) 
We'll  give  this  feller  a  dose  of  ox-yoke  tea! 

Polly 

The  kettle's  boiUn'. 


GETTYSBURG  163 

Link 

Wall,  then,  steep  him  good. 
(Polly  takes  from  Link  the  collar-thong,  carries  it  to 
the  work-bench,  shoves  it  into  the  narrow  end  of  the  box, 
which  she  then  closes  tight  and  connects  —  by  a  piece 
of  hose  —  to  the  spout  of  the  kettle.  At  thefartlier  end 
of  the  box,  steam  then  emerges  through  a  small  hole.) 

POLLT 

You  're  feelin'  smart  to-day. 

Link 

Smart!  — Wall,  if  I 
could  git  a  hull  man  to  swap  legs  with  me, 
mebbe  I'd  am  my  keep.  But  this  here  settin' 
dead  an*  alive,  without  no  legs,  day  in, 
day  out,  don't  make  an  old  hoss  wuth  his  oats. 

Polly 
{cheerfully) 

I  guess  you'll  soon  be  walkin'  round. 

Link 

Not  if 
that  doctor  feller  has  his  say :  He  says 
I  can't  never  go  agin  this  side  o'  Jordan; 
and  looks  like  he's  'bout  right.  —  Nine  months 

to-morrer, 
Polly,  gal,  sence  I  had  that  stroke. 

Polly 

{pointing  to  the  ox-yoke) 

You  're  fitter 
sittin'  than  most  folks  standin'. 


104  GETTYSBURG 

Link 

(briskly) 

Oh,  they  can't 
keep  my  two  hands  from  makin'  ox-yokes.  That's 
my  second  natur'  sence  I  was  a  boy. 

(Again  in  the  distance  a  bugle  sounds.  Link  starts.) 
^Tiat'sthat? 

Polly 
Why,  that 's  the  army  veterans 
down  to  the  graveyard.  This  is  Decoration 
mornin':  you  ain't  forgot? 

Link 

So  't  is,  so  't  is. 
Roger,  your  young  man  —  ha!    (chuckling)  he  come  and 

axed  me 
was  I  a-goin'  to  the  cemetery. 
"Me?  Don't  I  look  it?"  says  I.  Ha!  "Don't  I  look  it?" 

Polly 
He  meant  —  to  decorate  the  graves. 

Link 

O'  course; 
])ut  I  must  take  my  little  laugh.   I  told  him 
I  guessed  I  wa'n't  persent'blc  anyhow, 
my  mustache  and  my  boots  wa'n't  blacked  this  mornin'. 
I  don't  jest  like  t'  talk  about  my  legs.  — 
Be  you  a-goin'  to  take  your  young  school  folks, 
Polly? 

Polly 
Dear  no !  I  told  my  boys  and  girls 
to  march  xip  this  way  with  the  band.    I  said 
I'd  be  a-stayin'  home  and  learnin'  how 
to  keep  school  in  the  woodpile  here  with  you. 


GETTYSBURG  165 

Link 
{looking  wp  at  her  'proudly) 
Schoolma'am  at  seventeen!  Some  smart,  I  tell  ye! 

Polly 
{caressing  him) 

Schoolmaster,  you,  past  seventy;  that's  smarter! 
I  tell  'em  I  learn  from  you,  so's  I  can  teach 
my  young  folks  what  the  study-books  leave  out. 

Link 
Sure  ye  don't  want  to  jine  the  celebratin'? 

Polly 

No,  sir!  We  're  goin'  to  celebrate  right  here, 

and  you're  to  teach  me  to  keep  school  some  more. 

{She  holds  ready  for  him  the  blue  coat  and  hat.) 

Link 

{looking  up) 
What's  thar? 

Polly 

Your  teachin'  rig. 

{She  helps  him  on  with  it.) 

Link 

The  old  blue  coat !  — 
My,  but  I'd  Hke  to  see  the  boys  —  {gazing  at  the  hat)  the 

Grand 
Old  Army  Boys !   {dreamily)   Yes,  we  was  boys :  jest 

boys! 
Polly,  you  tell  your  young  folks,  when  they  study 
the  books,  that  we  was  nothin'  else  but  boys 


166  GETTYSBURG 

jest  fallin'  in  love,  with  best  gals  left  t'  home  — 
the  same  as  you;  and  when  the  shot  was  singin', 
we  pulled  their  picters  out,  and  prayed  to  them 
'most  morn'n  the  Almighty. 

(Link  looks  up  suddenly  —  a  strange  light  in  his  face. 
Again,  to  a  far  strain  of  music,  the  bugle  sounds.) 
Thar  she  blows 
Agin! 

Polly 
They're  marchin'  to  the  graves  with  flowers. 

Link 

My  Godfrey!  't  ain't  so  much  thinkin'  o'  flowers 
and  the  young  folks,  their  faces,  and  the  blue 
line  of  old  fellers  marchin*  —  it's  the  music! 
that  old  brass  voice  a-callin'!  Seems  as  though, 
legs  or  no  legs,  I  'd  have  to  up  and  foller 
to  God-knows-whar,  and  holler  —  holler  back 
to  guns  roarin'  in  the  dark.  No;  durn  it,  no! 
I  jest  can't  stan'  the  music. 

Polly 
(goes  to  the  work-bench,  where  the  box  is  steaming) 
Uncle  Link, 
you  want  that  I  should  steam  this  longer? 

Link 

{absently) 

Oh. 
A  kittleful,  a  kittleful. 

Polly 
{coming  over  to  him) 
Now,  then, 
I'm  ready  for  school.  —  I  hope  I've  drawed  the  map 
all  right. 


GETTYSBURG  167 

Link 

Map?  Oh,  the  map! 
(Surveying  the  woodpile  reminiscently,  he  nods.) 
Yes,  thar  she  be: 
old  Gettysburg! 

Polly 
I  know  the  places  —  most. 

LiXK 

So,  do  ye?  Good,  now:  whar's  your  marker? 

Polly 

{taking  up  the  hoe) 

Here. 
Link 

Willoughby  Run:  whar's  that? 

Polly 

(pointing  wiih  the  hoe  toward  the  left  of  the  woodpile) 

That 's  farthest  over 
next  the  bam  door. 

Link 

My,  how  we  fit  the  Johnnies 
thar,  the  fust  mornin' !  Jest  behind  them  willers, 
acrost  the  Run,  that  *s  whar  we  captur'd  Archer. 
My,  my! 

Polly 

Over  there  —  that 's  Seminary  Ridge. 
(She  points  to  different  heights  and  depressions,  as  Link 
nods  his  approval.) 
Peach  Orchard,  Devil's  Den,  Round  Top,  the  Wheat- 
field— 


168  GETTYSBURG 

Llnk 

Lord,  Lord,  the  Whcatficld! 

Polly 
(continuing) 

Cemetery  Hill, 
Little  Round  Top,  Death  Valley,  and  this  here 
is  Cemetery  Ridge. 

Link 
{pointing  to  the  little  flag) 

And  colors  flyin' ! 
We  kep  *em  flyin'  thar,  too,  all  three  days, 
From  start  to  finish. 

POLLY 

Have  I  learned  'em  right? 

Link 

A  number  One,  chick!  Wait  a  mite:  Gulp's  Hill: 
I  don't  jest  spy  Gulp's  Hill. 

Polly 

There  wa'n't  enough 
kindlin's  to  spare  for  that.  It  ought  to  lay 
east  there,  towards  the  kitchen. 

Link 

Ix't  it  go! 
That's  \vhar  us  Yanks  left  our  hark  door  ajar 
and  Johnson  stuck  his  foot  in:  kep'  it  thar, 
too,  till  ho  got  it  squoze  off  by  old  Slocuni. 
Ix.'t  Gulp's  Hill  lay  for  now.  —  Ix^nil  mo  your  marker. 

(Polly  hands  him  the  hoe.  From  his  chair,  he  reaches 
with  it  and  digs  in  the  chips.) 


\ 


GETTYSBURG  169 

Death  Valley  needs  some  scoopin'  deeper.  So: 
smooth  off  them  chips. 

(Polly  does  so  with  her  foot.) 
You  better  guess  't  was  deep 
As  hell,  that  second  day,  come  sundown.  —  Here, 

(He  hands  back  the  hoe  to  her.) 
flat  down  the  Wheatfield  yonder. 

(Polly  does  so.) 
God  a'mighty ! 
That  ^Tieatfield:  wall,  we  flatted  it  down  flatter 
than  any  pancake  what  you  ever  cooked, 
Polly;  and  't  wa'n't  no  maple  syrup  neither 
was  runnin',  slipp'ry  hot  and  slimy  black, 
all  over  it,  that  nightfall. 

Polly 

Here's  the  road 
to  Emmetsburg. 

Link 

No,  't 'ain't:  this  here's  the  pike 
to  Taneytown,  where  Sykes's  boys  come  sweatin', 
after  an  all-night  march,  jest  in  the  nick 
to  save  our  second  day.  The  Emmetsburg 
road's  thar.  —  Whar  was  I,  'fore  I  fell  cat-nappin'? 

Polly 
At  sunset,  July  second,  sixty-three. 

Link 
{nodding,  reminiscent) 

The  Bloody  Sundown!  God,  that  crazy  sun: 
she  set  a  dozen  times  that  afternoon, 


170  GETTYSBURG 

red-yeller  as  a  piinkin  jack-o'-lantern, 
rairin'  and  pitchin'  through  the  roarin'  smoke 
till  she  clean  busted,  like  the  other  bombs, 
behind  the  hills. 

Polly 

My!  Wa'n't  you  never  scart 
and  wished  you'd  stayed  t'  home? 

Link 

Scart?  Wall,  I  wonder! 
Chick,  look  a-thar:  them  little  stripes  and  stars. 
I  heerd  a  feller  onct,  down  to  the  store,  — 
a  dressy  mister,  span-new  from  the  city  — 
lay  in'  the  law  down :  "  All  this  stars  and  stripes" 
says  he,  "and  red  and  white  and  blue  is  rubbish, 
mere  sentimental  rot,  spread-eagleism!" 
"I  wan' t'  know!"  says  I.   "In  sixty-three, 
I  knowcd  a  lad,  named  Link.  Onct,  after  sundown 
I  met  him  stumblin'  —  with  two  dead  men's  muskets 
for  crutches  —  towards  a  bucket,  full  of  ink  — 
water,  they  called  it.   When  he'd  drunk  a  spell, 
he  tuk  the  rest  to  wash  his  bullet-holes.  —  - 

Wall,  sir,  he  had  a  piece  o'  splintered  stick,  * 

with  red  and  lehile  and  blue,  tore  'most  t'  tatters, 
a-danglin'  from  it.   'Be  you  color  sergeant?' 
says  I.  'Not  me,'  says  Link;  'the  sergeant  's  dead; 
but  when  he  fell,  he  handed  me  this  })it 
o'  rubbifih  —  red  and  white  and  blue.'  And  Link 
he  laughed,   '^^^^at  be  you  laughin'  for?'  says  I. 
'Oh,  nothin'.  Ain't  it  lovely,  though!'  "  says  Link. 


GETTYSBURG  171 

Polly 
WTiat  did  the  span-new  mister  say  to  that? 

Link 
I  did  n't  stop  to  Hsten.  Them  as  never 
heerd  dead  men  callin'  for  the  colors  don't 
guess  what  they  be. 

{Sitting  up  and  blinking  hard) 

But  this  ain't  keepin'  school ! 

Polly 
(quietly) 
I  guess  I'm  learnin'  somethin',  Uncle  Link. 

Link 

The  second  day,  'fore  sunset. 

{He  takes  the  hoe  and  points  with  it.) 
Yon'sthe  Wheatfield. 
Behind  it  thar  lies  Longstreet  with  his  rebels. 
Here  be  the  Yanks,  and  Cemetery  Ridge 
behind  'em.  Hancock  —  he 's  our  general  — 
he 's  got  to  hold  the  Ridge,  till  reinforcements 
from  Taneytown.  But  lose  the  Wheatfield,  lose 
the  Ridge,  and  lose  the  Ridge  —  lose  God-and-all!  — 
Lee,  the  old  fox,  he  'd  nab  up  Washington, 
Abe  Lincoln,  and  the  White  House  in  one  bite!  — 
So  the  Union,  Polly  —  me  and  you  and  Roger, 
your  Uncle  Link,  and  Uncle  Sam  —  is  all 
thar  —  growin'  in  that  Wheatfield. 

Polly 

{smiling  proudly) 

And  they're  growin' 
still! 


172  GETTYSBURG 

Link 

Not  the  wheat,  though.  Over  them  stone  walls, 
thar  comes  the  Johnnies,  thick  as  grasshoppers: 
gray  legs  a-jumpin'  through  the  tall  wheat-tops, 
and  now  thar  ain't  no  tops,  thar  ain't  no  wheat, 
thar  ain't  no  lookin':  jest  blind  feelin'  round 
in  the  black  mud,  and  trampin'  on  boys'  faces, 
and  grappliu'  with  hell-devils,  and  stink  o'  smoke, 
and  stingin'  smother,  and  —  up  thar  through  the  dark  — 
that  crazy  punkin  sun,  like  an  old  moon 
lopsided,  crackin'  her  red  shell  with  thunder! 

(In  the  distance,  a  bugle  sounds,  and  the  low  martial 
music  of  a  brass  band  begins.  Again  Link's  face 
iuntches,  and  he  pauses,  listening.  From  this  moment 
on,  the  sound  and  emotion  of  the  brass  music,  slouly 
growing  louder,  permeates  tlie  scene.) 

Polly 

Oh!  What  was  God  a-thinkin'  of,  t'  allow 
the  createil  world  to  act  that  awful.' 

Link 

Now, 
I  wonder!  —  Cast  your  eye  along  this  hoe: 

(lie  stirs  the  chif)s  and  wood-dirt  round  with  the  hoe- 
iron.) 
Thar  in  that  poked  up  mess  o*  dirt,  you  see 
yon  weeny  chip  of  ox-yoko?  —  That's  the  boy 
I  s])oke  on:  Link,  Link  Tailhourne:  "Chipmunk  Link," 
they  call  him,  'cause  his  legs  is  spry's  a  squirrel's.  — 
Wall,  mebbe  some  good  angel,  with  bright  eyes 
like  yourn,  stood  lookin'  down  on  him  that  day, 
keepin'  the  Devil's  hoe  from  crackin'  him. 

{Patting  her  han^l,  which  rests  on  his  hoe) 


GETTYSBURG  173 

If  so,  I  reckon,  Polly,  it  was  you. 

But  mebbe  jest  Old  Nick,  as  he  sat  hoein* 

them  hills,  and  haulin'  in  the  little  heaps 

o'  squirmin*  critters,  kind  o'  reco'nized 

Link  as  his  livin'  image,  and  so  kep'  him 

to  put  in  an  airthly  hell,  whar  thar  ain't  no  legs, 

and  worn-out  devils  sit  froze  in  high-backed  chairs, 

Ust'nin'  to  bugles  —  bugles  —  bugles,  calUn'. 

(Link  clutches  the  sides  of  his  chair,  staring.   The  music 
draws  nearer.  Polly  touches  him  soothingly.) 

Polly 
Don't,  dear;  they'll  soon  quit  playin'.  Never  mind 'em. 

Link 
(relaxing  under  her  touch) 

No,  never  mind;  that's  right.  It's  jest  that  onct  — 

onct  we  was  boys,  onct  we  was  boys  —  with  legs. 

But  never  mind.  An  old  boy  ain't  a  bugle. 

Onct,  though,  he  was :  and  all  God's  life  a-snortin' 

outn  his  nostrils,  and  Hell's  mischief  laughin' 

outn  his  eyes,  and  all  the  mornin'  winds 

a-blowin'  Glory  Hallelujahs,  like 

brass  music,  from  his  mouth.  —  But  never  mind ! 

'T  ain't  nothin' :  boys  in  blue  ain't  bugles  now. 

Old  brass  gits  rusty,  and  old  underpinnin' 

gits  rotten,  and  trapped  chipmunks  lose  their  legs. 

(With  smouldering  fire) 
But  jest  the  same  — 

(His  face  convulses  and  he  cries  out,  terribly  —  straining 
in  his  chair  to  rise.) 

—  for  holy  God,  that  band! 
Why  don't  they  stop  that  band! 


174  GETTYSBURG 

Polly 
(going) 

I'll  run  and  tell  them. 
Sit  quiet,  dear.   I'll  be  right  back. 

(Glancing  back  anxiously,  Polly  disappears  outside. 
The  approaching  band  begins  to  play  ''John  Brouii's 
Body."  Link  sits  motionless,  gripping  his  chair.) 

Link 

Set  quiet! 
Dead  folks  don't  set,  and  livin'  folks  kin  stand, 
and  Link  —  he  kin  set  quiet.  —  God  a'mighty, 
how  kin  he  set,  and  them  a-niarchin'  thar 
with  old  John  Brown?  Lord  God,  you  ain't  forgot 
the  boys,  have  ye?  the  boys,  how  they  come  marchin' 
home  to  ye,  live  and  dead,  behind  old  Brown, 
a-singin'  Glory  to  ye!  Jest  look  down: 
thar's  Gettysburg,  thar's  Cemetery  Ridge: 
don't  say  ye  disremenibcr  them!  And  thar's 
the  colors.  Look,  he 's  picked  'em  up  —  the  sergeant's 
blood  splotched  'em  some  —  but  thar  they  be,  still  flyin'! 
Link  done  that:  Link  —  the  spry  boy,  what  they  call 
Chipmunk:  you  ain't  forgot  his  double-step, 

have  ye? 

(Again  he  cries  out,  beseechingly) 

My  God,  why  do  You  keep  on  marchin' 
and  leave  him  settin'  here? 

(To  the  music  outside,  the  voices  of  children  begin  to  sing 
the  irords  of  ''John  Broim's  Body."  At  the  sound. 
Link's  face  becomes  tran.tformed  iciih  emotion,  his 
body  .shakes,  and  his  .shoulders  lieave  and  straighten.) 
No!  —  I  —  ux)nt  —  set! 
(Wresting  himself  mightily,  he  rises  from  his  chair,  and 
stands.) 


GETTYSBURG  175 

Them  are  the  boys  that  marched  to  Kingdom-Come 

ahead  of  us,  but  we  keep  fallin'  in  line. 

Them  voices  —  Lord,  I  guess  you've  brought  along 

Your  Sunday  choir  of  young  angel  folks 

to  help  the  boys  out. 

{Following  the  music  with  swaying  arms) 
Glory !  —  Never  mind 

me  singin':  you  kin  drown  me  out.  But  I'm 

goin*  t'  jine  in,  or  bust! 

(Joining  ivith  the  children's  voices,  he  moves  unconscious- 
ly along  the  edge  of  the  woodpile.  With  stiff  steps  — 
his  one  hand  leaning  on  the  hoe,  his  other  reached  as 
to  unseen  hands,  that  draw  him  —  he  totters  toward 
the  sunlight  and  the  green  lawn,  at  back.  As  he  does  so, 
his  thin,  cracked  voice  takes  up  the  battle-hymn  where 
the  children's  are  singing  it.) 

"  —  a-monld'rin'  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'rin'  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mould'rin'  in  the  grave. 
But  his  soul  goes  —  " 

{Suddenly  he  stops,  aware  that  he  is  walking,  and  cries 
aloud,  astounded) 

Lord,  Lord,  my  legs! 
Whar  did  Ye  git  my  legs? 

{Shaking  vnth  delight,  he  drops  his  hoe,  seizes  up  the 
little  flag  from  the  woodpile,  and  waves  it  joyously.) 
I'm  comin',  boys! 
Link's  loose  agin:  Chipmunk  has  sprung  his  trap. 

{With  tottering  gait,  he  climbs  the  little  mound  in  the 
woodpile.) 
Now,  boys,  three  cheers  for  Cemetery  Ridge ! 
Jine  in,  jine  in! 

{Svnnging  the  flag) 
Hooray !  —  Hooray !  —  Hooray ! 


176  GETTYSBURG 

(Outside,  the  music  groics  louder,  and  the  voices  of  old 
men  and  children  sing  martially  to  the  brass  music. 

With  his  final  cheer.  Link  stuiribles  down  from  the 
mound,  brandishes  in  one  hand  his  hat,  in  the  other 
the  little  flag,  and  stumps  off  toward  the  approaching 
procession  into  the  sunlight,  joining  his  old  cracked 
voice,  jubilant,  unth  the  singers:) 

"  —  ry  hallelujah. 
Glory,  glory  hallelujah, 
Hia  truth  is  marchin'  on!  " 


[Cubtain] 


I 


LONESOME-LIKE^ 

HAROLD  BRIGHOUSE 

CHARACTERS 

Sarah  Ormerod,  An  old  woman 
Emma  Brierley,  A  young  woman 
The  Rev.  Frank  Alleyne,  A  curate 
Sam  Horrocks,  A  young  man 

The  Scene  represents  the  interior  of  a  cottage  in  a  Lan- 
cashire village.  Through  the  window  at  the  back  the 
gray  row  of  cottages  opposite  is  just  visible.  The  outside 
door  is  next  to  the  window.  Door  left.  As  regards 
furniture  the  room  is  very  bare.  The  suggestion  is  not  of 
an  empty  room,  but  a  stripped  room.  For  example,  there 
are  several  square  patches  where  the  distemper  of  the  walls 
is  of  a  darker  shade  than  the  rest,  indicating  the  places 
once  occupied  by  pictures.  There  is  an  uncovered  deal 
table  and  two  chairs  by  it  near  the  fire-place  right.  At- 
tached to  the  Itft  wall  is  a  dresser  and  a  plate-rack  above 
it  containing  a  few  pots.  The  dresser  has  also  one  or  two 
utensils  upon  it.  A  blackened  kettle  rests  on  the  top  of  the 
cooking-range,  but  the  room  contains  only  the  barest 
necessities.  The  floor  is  uncarpeted.  There  are  no  win- 
dow curtains,  but  a  yard  of  cheap  muslin  is  fastened 
across  the  window,  not  coming,  however,  high  enough 

^  Included  by  special  permission  of  the  author  and  of  the  publishers, 
Messrs.  Gowans  and  Gray,  of  Glasgow. 

13 


178  LONESOME-LIKE 

to  prevent  a  passer-by  from  looking  in,  should  he  tcish  to 
do  30.  On  the  floor,  near  the  fire,  is  a  battered  black  tin 
trunk,  the  lid  of  which  is  raised.  On  a  peg  behind  the  door 
left  is  a  black  silk  skirt  and  bodice  and  an  old-fashioned 
beaded  bonnet.  The  time  is  afternoon.  As  the  curtain 
rises  the  room  is  empty.  Immediately,  however,  the  door 
left  opens  and  Sarah  Ormerod,  an  old  woman,  enters, 
carrying  clumsily  in  her  arjjis  a  couple  of  pink  flannelette 
nightdresses,  folded  neatly.  Her  black  stuff  dress  is  well 
worn,  and  her  wedding-ring  is  her  only  ornament.  She 
wears  elastic-sided  boots,  and  her  rather  short  skirt  shows 
a  pair  of  gray  worsted  stockings.  A  small  plaid  shawl 
covers  her  shoulders.  Sarah  crosses  and  puts  the  night- 
dresses on  the  table,  surveying  the  trunk  ruefully.  There 
is  a  knock  at  the  outside  door  and  she  looks  up. 

Sarah.  Who's  theer? 

Emma    (without).     It's    mc,    Mrs.    Ormerod,    Emma 
Brierley. 

Sajiah.  Eh,  coom  in,  Emma,  lass. 

{Enter  Emma  Brierley.  She  is  a  young  iveaver,  and, 
havitig  just  left  her  work,  she  icears  a  dark  skirt,  a 
blouse  of  S0J71C  indeierminate  blue-gray  shade  made  of 
cotton,  and  a  large  shawl  over  her  head  and  shoulders 
in  place  of  a  jacket  and  hat.  A  colored  cotton  apron  cov- 
ers her  skirt  below  the  iraist,  and  the  short  skirl  dis- 
plays stout  stockings  similar  to  Sarah's.  She  wears 
clogs,  and  the  clothes  —  except  the  shawl  —  are  cov- 
ered with  ends  of  cotton  and  cotton-wool  fluff.  Even 
her  hair  has  not  escaped.  A  pair  of  scissors  hangs  by 
a  cord  from  her  waist.) 

Sarah.  Tha's  kiiully  welcooin.    It's  pood  o'  thcc  to 
think  o'  coomin'  to  .see  an  onld  woman  hkc  mc. 

E.MMA  {by  door).     Nought  o'  th'  sort,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 


LONESOME-LIKE  179 

Th'  mill 's  just  loosed  and  A  thowt  A  'd  step  in  as  A  were 
passin'  and  see  'ow  tha  was  feeling  like. 

Sarah  (crossing  to  box).  Oh,  nicely,  nicely,  thankee. 
It's  only  my  'ands  as  is  gone  paralytic,  tha  knaws,  an'  a 
weaver 's  no  manner  o'  good  to  nobody  without  th'  use  o' 
'er 'ands.  A'm  all  reeght  in  masel'.  That 's  worst  of  it. 

Emma.  Well,  while  A'm  'ere,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  is  theer 
nought  as  A  can  do  for  thee? 

Sarah.  A  dunno  as  theer  is,  thankee,  Emma. 

Emma  {taking  her  shaivl  off,  looking  round  and  hanging  it 
on  a  peg  in  the  door) .  Well,  A  knaws  better.  What  wert 
doin'  when  A  coom  in?  Packin'  yon  box? 

Sarah.  Aye.  Tha  sees  theer 's  a  two  three  things  as  A 
canna  bear  thowt  o'  parting  from.  A  don't  reeghtly  knaw 
if  they  '11  let  me  tak'  'em  into  workus  wi'  me,  but  A  canna 
have  'em  sold  w  i'  rest  of  stuff. 

Emma  (crosses  below  Sarah  to  box,  going  on  her  knees). 
Let  me  help  yo'. 

Sarah.  Tha 's  a  good  lass,  Emma.  A  'd  tak'  it  kindly  of 
thee. 

Emma.  They  'd  do  wi'  packin'  a  bit  closer.  A  dunno  as 
they  'd  carry  safe  that  road. 

Sarah.  A  know.  It 's  my  'ands,  tha  sees,  as  mak's  it  diffi- 
cult for  me. 

(Sits  on  chair.) 

Emma.  Aye.  A '11  soon  settle  'em  a  bit  tighter. 

(Lifts  all  Old,  buries  her  arms  in  the  box,  and  rearranges 
its  contents.) 

Sarah.  But  what 's  'appened  to  thy  looms,  lass?  They  '11 
not  weave  by  'emselves  while  thee 's  'ere,  tha  knows. 

Emma  (looking  round) .  Eh,  looms  is  all  reeght.  Factory 's 
stopped.  It's  Saturday  afternoon. 

Sarah.  So  't  is.  A  'd  clean  forgot.  A  do  forget  time  o'  th' 
week  sittin'  'ere  day  arter  day  wi'  nought  to  do. 


180  LONESOME-LIKE 

Emma.  So  that's  all  reeght.  Tha's  no  need  to  worry 
about  me.  Tha's  got  trouble  enough  of  thy  own, 

{Resuming  at  the  box) 

Sahah.  Aye,  th'  art  reeght  theer,  lass.  Theer's  none  on 
us  likes  to  think  o'  goin'  to  workus  when  we're  ould. 

Emma.  'Appen  it'll  be  all  reeght  after  all.  Parson's 
coomin'  to  see  thee. 

Sarah.  Aye,  A  knaw  'e  is.  A  dunno,  but  A'm  in  'opes 
'e'U  do  summat  for  me.  Tha  can't  never  tell  what  them 
folks  can  do. 

Emma  {kneeling  tip).  Tha  keep  thy  pecker  oop,  ^Irs. 
Ormcrod.  That's  what  my  moother  says  to  me  when  A 
tould  'er  A  were  coomin'  in  to  thee.  Keep  'er  pecker  oop, 
she  says.  It's  not  as  if  she'd  been  lazy  or  a  wastrel,  she 
says;  Sal  Ormerod  's  bin  a  'ard  worker  in  'er  day,  she  says. 
It's  not  as  if  it  were  thy  fault.  Tha  can't  'elp  tha  'ands 
goin'  paralytic. 

{She  continues  rummaging  in  the  trunk  while  speaking.) 

Sarah.  Naw.  It 's  not  my  f.ault.  God  knaws  A'm  game 
enough  for  work,  ould  as  A  am.  A  allays  knawed  as  A'd 
'ave  to  work  for  my  living  all  th'  days  o'  my  life.  A  never 
was  a  savin'  sort. 

Emma.  Theer 'snowt  against  thee  for  that.  Theer 'ssoom 
as  can  be  careful  o'  theer  brass  an'  soom  as  can't.  It 's  not  a 
virtue,  it's  a  gift.  That's  what  my  moother  allays  says. 

{Resumes  paclcing.) 

Sarah.  She's  reeght  an'  all.  We  never  'ad  the  gift  o' 
savin',  my  man  and  me.  An'  when  Tom  Ormerod  took  an' 
died,  the  club  money  as  A  drew  all  went  on  'is  funeral  an' 
'is  gravestone.  A  warn't  goin'  to  'ave  it  said  as  'e  warn't 
buried  proper. 

Emma.  It  were  a  beautiful  funeral,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  Aye. 

Emma.  A  will  say  that,  beautiful  it  were.  A  never  seen  a 


LONESOME-LIKE  181 

better,  an'  A  goes  to  all  as  A  can.    {Rises.)    A  dotes  on 
buryin's.  Are  these  the  next? 

{Crosses  before  table  for  nightdresses,  takes  the  night- 
dresses and  resumes  packing.) 

Sarah.  Aye 

{Emma  puts  them  in  and  rests  on  her  knees  listening  to 
Sarah's  next  speech.) 

Sarah  {pause).  A've  been  a  'ouseproud  woman  all  my 
life,  Emma,  an'  A've  took  pride  in  'avin'  my  bits  o'  sticks  as 
good  as  another's.  Even  th'  manager's  missus  oop  to  fac- 
tory 'ouse  theer,  she  never  'ad  a  better  show  o'  furniture 
nor  me,  though  A  says  it  as  shouldn't.  An' it  tak's  brass  to 
keep  a  decent  'ouse  over  your  yead.  An'  we  allays  'ad  our 
full  week's  'ollydayin'  at  Blackpool  reg'lar  at  Wakes  time. 
Us  did  n't  'ave  no  childer  o'  our  own  to  spend  it  on,  an'  us 
spent  it  on  ourselves.  A  allays  'ad  a  plenty  o'  good  food  in 
th'  'ouse  an'  never  stinted  nobody,  an'  Tom  'e  liked  'is  beer 
an'  'is  baccy.  'E  were  a  pigeon-fancier,  too,  in  'is  day,  were 
my  Tom,  an'  pigeon-fancying  runs  away  wi'  a  mint  o' 
money.  No.  Soom'ow  theer  never  was  no  brass  to  put  in 
th'  bank.  We  was  allays  spent  oop  coom  wages  neeght. 

Emma.  A  knaw,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  May  be  A'm  young, 
but  A  knaw  'ow  't  is.  We  works  cruel  'ard  in  th'  mill,  an' 
when  us  plays,  us  plays  as  'ard  too  {pause),  an'  small  blame 
to  us  either.  It 's  our  own  we  're  spendin'. 

Sarah.  Aye.  It 's  a  'ard  life,  the  factory  'and's.  A  can 
mind  me  many  an'  many 's  the  time  when  th'  warnin'  bell 
went  on  th'  factory  lodge  at  ha'f  past  five  of  a  winter's 
mornin'  as  A've  craved  for  another  ha'f  hour  in  my  bed, 
but  Tom  'e  got  me  oop  an'  we  was  never  after  six  passin' 
through  factory  gates  all  th'  years  we  were  wed.  There's 
not  many  as  can  say  they  were  never  late.  "Work  or 
clem,"  that  were  what  Tom  allays  tould  me  th'  ould  bell 
were  sayin'.  An'  'e  were  reeght,  Emma.  "Work  or  clem" 


182  LONESOME-LIKE 

is  God's  truth.  (Emma's  head  in  box.)  An'  now  th'  time  's 
coom  when  A  can't  work  no  more.  But  Parson  's  a  good 
man, 'e'llmak' itallreeght.  {Em}>ia's  head  appears.)  Eh,  it 
were  good  o'  thee  to  coom  in,  lass.  A  bit  o'  coompany  do 
mak'  a  world  o'  difference.  A  'm  twice  as  cheerful  as  A  were. 

Emma.  A'ra  glad  to  'ear  tha  say  so,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
{Rises  from  the  box.)   Is  theer  owt  else? 

Sarah.  A  were  thinkin'  A'd  like  to  tak'  my  black  silk  as 
A've  worn  o'  Sundays  this  many  a  year,  but  A  canna  think 
it's  reeght  thing  for  workus. 

Emma.  Oh,  thee  tak'  it,  ^Irs.  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  A'd  dearly  love  to.  Tha  sees  A'm  noan  in  debt, 
no])but  what  chairs  an  table  'ull  i)ay  for,  and  A  doan't  like 
thowt  o'  leaving  owt  as  A'm  greatly  fond  of. 

Emma.  Yo  doan't,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  Thee  tak' it.  ^^^lee^ 
is  it?  A'llputunin.  Theer 's  lots  o' room  on  top.  A'Usee 
un  's  noan  crushed. 

Sarah.  It's  hanging  theer  behind  door.  (Em.ma  crosses 
back  to  door,  gets  clothes.)  A  got  un  out  to  show  Parson.  A 
thowt  A'd  ask  un  if  it  were  proper  to  tak'  it  if  A've  to  go. 
My  best  l)onnet  's  with  it,  an'  ail. 

(Emma  goes  below  table,  takes  the  frock  and  bonnet,  folds 
it  on  the  table,  and  packs'  it.) 

Emma.  A '11  put  un  in. 

S.\RAn.  A'm  being  a  lot  o'  trouble  to  thee,  lass. 

Emma.  That's  nowt;  neighbors  mun  be  neighborly. 

{Gets  bonnet  from  table  and  packs  it.) 

S.\RAH  {after  a  paiise,  looking  round).  Place  doan't  look 
much,  an'  that's  a  fact.  Th'  furniture  's  bin  goin'  bit  by 
bit,  and  theer  ain't  nuirh  left  to  part  wi'  now. 

Emma.  Never  mind;  it  *ull  be  all  reeght  now  Parson 's 
takken  thee  oop. 

Sauah.  A'm  hopin'  so.  A  am  hopin'  so.  A  never  could 
abide  th'  thowt  o'  tii'  workus  —  me  as  'as  bin  an  'ard- 


LONESOME-LEKE  183 

workin'  woman.  A  could  n't  fancy  sleepin'  in  a  strange  bed 
wi'  strange  folk  round  me,  an'  whenth'  Matron  said,  "Do 
that,"  A 'd  'ave  to  do  it,  an'  when  she  said, "  Go  theer,"  A  'd 
'ave  to  a'  gone  wheer  she  tould  me  —  me  as  'as  allays  'eld 
my  yead  'igh  an'  gone  the  way  A  pleased  masel'.  Eh,  it's  a 
terrible  thowt,  the  workus. 

Emma  (rising).  Now  tha's  sure  that's  all? 

Sarah  (after  a  pause,  considers).  Eh,  if  Ahavna  forgot 
my  neeghtcaps.  (Rises,  moves  centre  and  stops.)  A  suppose 
they  '11  let  me  w^ear  un  in  yonder.  A  doan't  reeghtly  think 
as  A  'd  get  my  rest  proper  wi'out  my  neeghtcaps. 

Emma.  Oh,  they'll  let  thee  wear  un  all  reeght. 

Sarah  (as  she  goes).  A '11  go  an'  get  un.  (Exit  rigid,  re- 
turning presently  with  the  white  nightcaps.)  That's  all  now. 
(Gives  them  to  Emma,  who  meets  her  at  centre.) 

Emma  (putting  them  in) .  Yo'  never  'ad  no  childer,  did  yo', 
Mrs.  Ormerod? 

Sarah.  No,  Emma,  no  —  maybe  that's  as  broad  as  's 
long.  (Sits  above  fire.)  Yo' never  knaw 'ow  they  go.  Soom 
on  'em  turn  again  yo'  when  they  're  growed,  or  they  get 
wed  themselves  an'  forget  all  as  yo'  've  done  for  'em,  like  a 
many  A  could  name,  and  they're  allays  a  worrit  to  yo' 
when  they  're  young. 

Emma.  A'm  gettin'  wed  masel'  soon,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Sabah.  Areyo',now,Emma?  Well,  tha  art  not  one  o' them 
graceless  good-for-nowts.  Tha '11  never  forget  thy  moother, 
A  knaw,  nor  what  she's  done  for  thee.  Who's  tha  keepin' 
coompany  with? 

Emma.  It 's  Joe  Hindle  as  goes  wi'  me,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  'Indie,  'Indie?  What,  not  son  to  Robert  'Indie, 
'im  as  used  to  be  overlooker  in  th'  factory  till  'e  went  to 
foreign  parts  to  learn  them  Roossians  'ow  to  weave? 

Emma.  Aye,  that 's  'im. 

Sarah.  Well,  A  dunno  aught  about  th'  lad.   'Is  faither 


184  LOXESOME-LIKE 

were  a  fine  man.  A  minds  'im  well.  But  A '11  tell  thee  this, 
Emma,  an'  A '11  tell  it  thee  to  thy  faice,  'e  's  doin'  well  for 
'isself ,  is  young  Joe  'Indie. 

Emma.  Thankee,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  Gettin'  wed!  Think  o'  that.  \Miy,  it  seems  as 
't  were  only  t'other  day  as  tha  was  runnin'  about  in  short 
frocks,  an'  now  tha's  growed  up  and  gettin'  thasel*  wed! 
Time  do  run  on.  Sithee,  Emma,  tha's  a  pood  lass,  A've 
gotten  an  ould  teapot  in  yonder  {indicating  her  bedroom) 
as  my  moother  give  me  when  A  was  wed.  A  were  n't  for 
packing  it  in  box  because  o'  risk  o'  breaking  it.  A  were 
going  to  carry  it  in  my  'and.  A'd  a  mind  to  keep  it  till  A 
died,  but  A  reckon  A '11  'ave  no  use  for  it  in  workus. 

Emma.  Tha's  not  gone  thcer  yet. 

Sarah.  Never  mind  that.  {Slowly  rises.)  A'm  going  to 
give  it  thee,  lass,  for  a  weddin'-gift.  Tha '11  tak'  care  of  it, 
A  knaw,  and  when  thy  eye  catches  it,  'appen  tha '11  spare 
me  a  thowi;. 

Emma.  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  A  could  n't  think  o'  tak- 
kin*  it. 

Sarah.  Art  too  proud  to  tak'  a  gift  from  me? 

Emma.  No.  Tha  knaws  A'm  not. 

Sarah.  Then  hold  thy  hush.  A '11  be  back  in  a  minute. 
Happen  A'd  best  tidy  mascl'  up  too  against  Parson  cooms. 

Emma.  Can  A  help  thee,  Mrs.  Ormerod? 

Sarah.  No,  lass, no.  Aran  doa  bitfor  masel*.  My 'ands 
isn't  that  bad;  A  canna  weave  wi'  'cm,  but  A  can  do  all  as 
A  need  do. 

Emma.  Well,  A  '11  do  box  up. 

{Crosses  to  table  right  and  gets  cord.) 

Sarah.  Aye. 

Emma.  All  recght. 

{Exit  Sauah.  .1  jnan'sfacc  appears  outside  at  the  win- 
doiv.  He  surreys  the  room,  and  then  the  face  vanishes 
as  he  knocks  at  the  door.) 


LONESOME-LIKE  185 

\Mio's  theer? 

Sam  {iciihovi).  It's  me,  Sam  Horrocks.    {Emma  crosses 
left  and  opens  door.)  May  A  coom  in? 
Emma.  \Miat  dost  want? 

Sam  {on  the  doorstep).  A  want  a  word  wi'  thee,  Emma 
Brierley.  A  followed  thee  oop  from  factory  and  A  've  bin 
waitin*  out  theer  till  A'm  tired  o'  waitin'. 

Emma.  Well,  tha'd  better  coom  in.  A  'ave  n't  time  to 
talk  wi'  thee  at  door. 

(Emma  lets  him  in,  closes  door,  and,  leaving  him  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  room,  resumes  work  on  her 
knees  at  the  box.  Sam  Horrocks  is  a  hulking  young 
man  of  a  rather  vacant  expression.  He  is  dressed  in 
mechanic's  blue  dungarees.  His  face  is  oily  and  his 
clothes  stained.  He  wears  boots,  not  clogs.  He  mechan- 
ically takes  a  ball  of  oily  black  cotton-waste  from  his 
right  pocket  when  in  conversational  difficulties  and 
wipes  his  hands  upon  it.  He  has  a  red  muffler  round 
his  neck  without  collar,  and  his  shock  of  fair  hair  is 
surmounted  by  a  greasy  black  cap,  which  covers  per- 
haps one  tenth  of  it.) 
S.\m  {after  watching  Emma's  back  for  a  moment).  Wheer 's 
Mrs.  Ormerod? 

Emma  {without  looking  up).  What's  that  to  do  wi'  thee? 
Sam  {apologetically) .  A  were  only  askin'.  Tha  needn't  be 
short  wi'  a  chap. 
Emma.  She 's  in  scullery  washin'  *er,  if  tha  wantstoknaw. 
Sam.  Oh! 

Emma  {looking  at  him  over  her  shoidder  after  a  slight  pause) . 
Doan't  tha  tak'  thy  cap  off  in  'ouse,  Sam  Horrocks? 
Sam.  Naw. 

Eaevla..  Well,  tha  can  tak'  it  off  in  this  *Guse  or  get  t' 
t'other  side  o'  door. 
Sam.  {Takes  off  his  cap  and  stuffs  it  in  his  left  pocket  after 


186  LOXESOME-LIXE 

trying  his  rigid  and  finding  the  ball  of  waste  in  it.)     Yes, 
Emma. 

(Emma  resumes  icork  uilh  her  back  touards  him  and 
tvaitsfor  him  to  speak.   But  he  is  not  ready  yet.) 

Emma.  Well,  what  dost  want? 

Saai.  Nought.  —  Eh,  but  tha  art  a  gradely  wench. 

Emma.  WTiat  's  that  to  do  wi'  thee? 

Sam.  Nought. 

Emma.  Then  just  tha  mind  thy  own  business,  an'  doan't 
pass  compliments  behind  folks'  backs. 

Sam.  a  did  n't  mean  no  'arm. 

Emma.  Well? 

Sam.  It's  a  fine  day,  is  n't  it?  For  th'  time  o'  th'  year? 

Emma.  Aye. 

Sam.  a  very  fine  day. 

Emma.  Aye. 

Sam  (desperately) .  It's  a  damned  fine  day. 

Emma.  Aye. 

Sam  (after  a  moment).  Dost  know  my  'ouse,  Emma? 

Emma.  Aye. 

Sam.  Wert  ever  in  it? 

Emma.  Not  sin'  tha  moother  died. 

Sam.  Naw.  A  sujiposc  not.  Not  sin'  ma  moother  died. 
She  were  a  fine  woman,  ma  moother,  for  all  she  were  bed- 
ridden. 

Emma.  She  were  better  than  'or  son,  though  that's  not 
saying  much  neither. 

Sam.  Naw,  but  tha  does  mind  ma  'ouse,  Emma,  as  it 
were  when  she  were  alive? 

Emma.  Aye. 

Sam.  a  've  done  a  bit  at  it  sin'  them  days.  Got  a  new 
quilt  on  bed  from  Co-op.  Red  un,  it  is,  wi'  blue  stripes  down 
•er. 

Emma.  Aye. 


LONESOME-LIKE  187 

Sam.  Well,  Emma? 

Emma  {over  her  shoulder) .  Well,  what?  What 's  thy  'ouse 
an'  thy  quilt  to  do  wi'  me? 

Sam.  Oh,  nought.  —  Tha  does  n't  'elp  a  feller  much, 
neither. 

Emma.  {Rises  and  faces  him.  Sam  is  behind  corner  table 
and  backs  a  little  before  her.)  What's  tha  gettin'  at,  Sam 
Horrocks?  Tha  's  got  a  tongue  in  thy  f  aice,  has  n't  tha? 

Sam.  a  suppose  so.  A  doan't  use  it  much  though. 

Emma.  No.  Tha  's  not  much  better  than  a  tongue-tied 
idiot,  Sam  Horrocks,  allays  mooning  about  in  th'  engine- 
house  in  daytime  an'  sulkin'  at  'ome  neeghttime. 

Sam.  Aye,  A  'm  lonely  sin'  ma  moother  died.  She  did  'ave 
a  way  wi'  'er,  ma  moother.  Th'  'ould  plaice  'as  not  bin  t' 
same  to  me  sin'  she  went.  Daytime,  tha  knaws,  A  'm  all 
reeght.  Tha  sees,  them  engines,  them  an'  me 's  pals.  They 
talks  to  me  an'  A  understands  their  ways.  A  doan't  some- 
'ow  seem  to  understand  th'  ways  o'  folks  like  as  A  does  th* 
ways  o'  them  engines. 

Emma.  Tha  doesn't  try.  T '  other  lads  goes  rattin'  or  dog- 
feeghtin'  on  a  Sunday  or  to  a  football  match  of  a  Saturday 
afternoon.  Tha  stays  moonin'  about  th'  'ouse.  Tha's  not 
likely  to  understand  folks.  Tha's  not  sociable. 

Sam.  Naw.  That 's  reeght  enough.  A  nobbut  get  laughed 
at  when  A  tries  to  be  sociable  an'  stand  my  corner  down  at 
th'  pub  wi'  th'  rest  o'  th'  lads.  It 's  no  use  ma  tryin'  to  soop 
ale;  A  can't  carry  th'  drink  like  t'  others.  A  knaws  A  've 
ways  o'  ma  own. 

Emma.  Tha  has  that. 

Sam.  A'm  terrible  lonesome,  Emma.  That  theer 'ouse  o' 
mine,  it  do  want  a  wench  about  th'  plaice.  Th'  engines  is 
all  reeght  for  days,  but  th'  neeghts  is  that  lonesome-like  tha 
would  n't  believe. 

Emma..  Tha 's  only  thasel'  to  blame.  It 's  nought  to  do 
wi'  me,  choosehow. 


188  LONESOME-LIKE 

Sam.  Naw?  A'd  —  A'd  'oped  as  'ow  it  might  'ave, 
Emma. 

Emma  {approaching  threateningly).  Sam  Horrocks,  if  tha 
doan't  tell  me  proper  what  tha  means  A '11  give  tha  such  a 
slap  in  tir  mouth. 

Sam  {backing  before  her).  Tha  does  fluster  a  feller,  Emma. 
Just  like  ma  moother. 

Emma.  A  wish  A  *ad  bin.  A'd  'ave  knocked  some  sense 
into  thy  silly  yead. 

^Sam  {suddenly  and  clumsily  kneels  above  chair  left  of  table). 
Wilt  tha  'ave  me,  Emma?  A  mak'good  money  in  th' engine- 
house. 

Emma.  Get  cop,  tha  great  fool.  If  thadidn'tkeepthasel' 
so  close  wi'  tha  moonin'  about  in  th*  engine-'ouse  an'  never 
speakin'  a  word  to  nobody,  tha'd  knaw  A  were  keepin' 
coompany  wi'  Joe  II indie. 

Sam  {scrambling  up).  Is  that  a  fact,  Emma? 

Emma.  Of  course  it's  a  fact.  Banns  'ull  be  oop  come 
Sunday  fortneeght.  We've  not  'idden  it  neither.  It's  just 
like  the  great  blind  idiot  that  tha  art  not  to  'a'  seen  it  long 
enough  sin'. 

Sam.  A  wer'  n't  aware.  By  gum,  A  'ad  so  'oped  as  tha  'd 
*ave  me,  Emma. 

Emma  (a  little  more  softly).  A'm  sorry  if  A've  'urt  thee, 
Sam. 

Sam.  Aye.  It  were  ma  fault.  Eh,  well,  A  think  mebbe 
A'd  best  be  goin'. 

Emma  {lifts  box  to  left).  Aye.  Parson  *s  coomin'  to  see 
Mrs.  Ormerod  in  a  minute. 

S.\m  {with  pride).  A  knaw  all  about  that,  anyhow. 

Emma.  She  'm  in  a  bad  way.  A  dunno  masel'  as  Parson 
can  do  much  for  *er. 

Sam.  It 's  'ard  lines  on  an  ouKl  un.  Well,  yo  '11  not  want 
me  'ere.  A  'U  be  movin*  on.  {Getting  his  cap  out)  No  offense, 


LONESOME-LIKE  189 

Emma ,  A  'ope.  A  'd  'ave  asked  thee  first  if  A  'd  knawn  as  'e 
were  after  thee.  A've  bin  tryin'  for  long  enough. 

Emma.  No.  Theer 's  no  offense,  Sam.  Tha'sagoodladif 
tha  art  a  fool,  an'  mebbe  tha  's  not  to  blame  for  that.  Good- 
bye. 

Sam.  Good-bye,  Emma.  An'  —  An'  A  'ope  'e  '11  mak* 
thee  *appy .  A  'd  dearly  like  to  coom  to  th'  weddin'  an'  shake 
'is  'and.  (Mrs.  Ormerod  heard  off  rigid.) 

Emma.  A '11  see  tha's  asked.  Theer's  Mrs.  Ormerod 
stirrin'.  Tha'd  best  be  gettin'. 

Sam.  All  reeght.    Good-bye,  Emma. 

Emma.  Good-bye,  Sam. 

{Exit  Sam  left  centre.  Mrs.  Ormerod  comes  from  the 
inside  door.  She  has  a  small  blue  teapot  in  her  hand.) 

Sarah.  Was  anybody  'ere,  Emma?  A  thowt  A  yeard 
someun  talkin',  only  my  yearin'  isn't  what  it  used  to  be, 
an'  A  warn't  sure. 

Emaia.  It  were  Sam  Horrocks,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  Yon  lad  of  ould  Sal  Horrocks  as  died  last  year? 
'Im  as  is  n't  reeght  in  'is  yead? 

Emma.  Aye.    'E  's  bin  askin'  me  to  wed  'im. 

Sarah  (incensed).  In  my  'ouse?  Theer's  imperence  for 
thee,  an'  tha  promised  to  another  lad,  an'  all.  A  'd  'ave  set 
about  'im  wi'  a  stick,  Emma. 

Emma.  'E  did  n't  knaw  about  Joe.  It  made  me  feel  cruel 
like  to  'ave  to  tell  'im. 

Sarah.  'E'll  get  ower  it.  Soom  lass  '11  tak'  'im. 

Emma.  A  suppose  so. 

Sahak  {coming down, putting  the  teapot  in  Emma's  hands). 
Well,  theer's  teapot. 

Emma  {meets  Sarah  right  centre,  examining  teapot).  It's 
beautiful.  Beautiful,  it  is,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

S.iRAH.  Aye,  it's  a  bit  o'  real  china  is  that.  Tha  '11  tak* 
care  on  't,  lass,  won't  thee? 


190  LOXESOME-LIKE 

Emma.  A  will  an'  all. 

Sarah.  Aye.  A  knaw  it's  safe  wi'  thee.  Mchhe  safer 
than  it  would  he  inworkus.  A  can't  think  well  on  yon  plaice. 
A  goa  cold  all  ower  at  tho^l  of  it. 

(.•1  knock  at  the  door.) 
Emma.  That'll  be  Parson. 

Sarah  {crosses  left,  smoothing  her  hair).  Goa  an'  look 
through  window  first,  an'  see  who  't  is. 

Emma  (puts  teapot  on  tabic;  looking  through  tcindow). 
It  is  not  th'  ould  Parson.  It's  one  o'  them  young  curate 
chaps. 

Sarah.  Well,  coom  away  from  window  an'  sit  thee  down. 
It  won't  do  to  seem  too  eager.  Let  un  knock  again  if  it 's  not 
th'  ould  Parson. 

(Emma  leaves  the  window  and  goes  to  right  of  table.   The 
knock  is  repeated. 
Sarah  {raising  her  voice).    Coora  in  so  who  tha  art. 
Door  's  on  latch. 

{Enter  the  Rev.  Fr.\nk  Alleyne.  lie  is  a  young  curate, 
a  Londoner   and   an    Oxford    man,  by  association, 
training,  and  taste  totally  unfitted  for  a  Lancashire 
curacy,  in  ivhich  he  is,  unfortunately,  Jio  exception.) 
Allei'NE.  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 
Sarah.  Good  day  to  thee. 

ALLE-i-NE.  I'm  sorry  to  say  Mt.  Blundell  has  had  to  go 
to  a  missionary  meeting,  but  he  asked  me  to  come  and  sec 
you  in  his  stead. 

Sarah.  Tha  's  welcoom,  lad.  Sit  thee  doon. 

(Emma  comes  below  table  left.  Dusts  a  chair,  which 
does  n'/  need  it,  with  her  apron.  Alleyne  raises  a 
deprecatory  hand.  S.kii.kii's  familiarity,  as  it  seems 
to  him,  offends  him.  He  looks  sourly  at  Emma  and 
markedly  ignores  her.) 
Alleyne.  Thank  you ;  no,  I  won't  sit ;  I  cannot  stay  long. 


LONESOME-LIKE  191 

Sarah.  Just  as  tha  likes.  It's  all  same  to  me. 

(Emma  stays  by  right  of  table.) 

Alleyne.  How  is  it  with  you,  Mrs.  Ormerod? 

Sarah.  It  might  be  worse.  A  've  lost  th'  use  o'  my  'ands, 
and  they  're  takkin'  me  to  workus,  but  A  'm  not  dead  yet, 
and  that 's  summat  to  be  thankul  for. 

Alleyne.  Oh,  yes,  yes,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  The  —  er  — 
message  I  am  to  deliver  is,  I  fear,  not  quite  what  Mr.  Blun- 
dell  led  you  to  hope  for.  His  efforts  on  yom'  behalf  have  — 
er  —  unfortimately  failed.  He  finds  himself  obliged  to  give 
up  all  hope  of  aiding  you  to  a  livelihood.  In  fact  —  er  —  I 
understand  that  the  arrangements  made  for  your  removal 
to  the  workhouse  this  afternoon  must  be  carried  out.  It 
seems  there  is  no  alternative.  I  am  grieved  to  be  the  bearer 
of  bad  tidings,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  find  a  comfortable 
home  awaiting  you,  Mrs.  —  er  —  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  'Appen  A  shall  an'  'appen  A  shan't.  Theer  's  no 
tellin'  'ow  you'll  favor  a  thing  till  you  've  tried  it. 

Alleyne.  You  must  resign  yourself  to  the  will  of  Provi- 
dence. The  consolations  of  religion  are  always  with  us. 
Shall  I  pray  with  you? 

Sarah.  A  never  were  much  at  pray  in'  when  A  were 
well  off,  an'  A  doubt  the  Lord  ud  tak'  it  kind  o'  selfish  o'  me 
if  A  coom  cryin'  to  'im  now  A'm  'urt. 

Alleyne.  He  will  understand.  Can  I  do  nothing  for  you? 

Sarah.  A  dunno  as  tha  can,  thankin'  thee  all  same. 

Alleyne.  I  am  privileged  with  Mr.  Blundell's  permis- 
sion to  bring  a  little  gift  to  you,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  {Feeling  in 
his  coat-tails  and  bringing  out  a  Testament.)  Allow  me  to 
present  you  with  this  Testament,  and  may  it  help  you  to 
bear  your  Cross  with  resignation.  {He  hands  her  the  Testa- 
ment. Sarah  does  not  raise  her  hands,  and  it  drops  on  her  lap. 
Alleyne  takes  it  again  and  puts  it  on  the  table.)  Ah,  yes,  of 
course  —  your  poor  hands  —  I  understand. 


192  LONESOME-LIKE 

Sarah.  Thankee  kindly.  Readin'  don't  coom  easy  to  me, 
an'  my  eyes  are  n't  what  they  were,  but  A  '11  mak'  most  of  it. 

Alleyne.  You  will  never  read  that  in  vain.  And  now, 
dear  sister,  I  must  go.  I  will  pray  for  strength  for  you.  All 
will  be  well.   Good  day. 

Sarau.  Good  day  to  thee. 

{Exit  ALLE'i'XE.) 

Emma.  Tha  does  n't  look  so  pleased  wi'  tha  gift,  Mrs. 
Ormerod. 

Sarah.  It's  not  square  thing  of  th'  ould  Parson,  Emma. 
'E  should  *a'  coom  an'  tould  me  'isself.  Looks  like  'e  were 
fcart  to  do  it.  A  never  could  abide  them  curate  lads.  We 
doan't  want  no  grand  Lunnon  gentlemen  down  'ere.  'E 
doan't  understand  us  no  more  than  we  understand  'im.  'E 
means  all  reeght,  poor  lad.  Sithee,  Emma,  A've  bin  a 
church-goin'  woman  all  my  days.  A  was  browt  oop  to 
church,  an'  many  's  th'  bit  o'  brass  they  've  'ad  out  o'  me  in 
my  time.  An'  in  th'  end  they  send  me  a  fine  curate  with  a 
tuppenny  Testament.  That 's  all  th'  good  yo'  get  out  o*  they 
folks. 

Emma.  We 'm chapel  to  our  'ouse,  an'  'e  didn't  forget  to 
let  me  see  'e  knaw'd  it,  but  A  doan't  say  as  it's  ony  differ- 
ent wi'  chapels,  neither.  They  get  what  they  can  outer  yo', 
but  yo'  mustn't  look  for  nothin'  back,  when  th'  pinch 
cooms.  {Clock  outside  strikes  three.)  Sakes  alive,  thecr's 
clock  goin'  three.  My  dinner  'ull  be  nice  an'  cold. 

Sarah.  Eh,  what's  that,  lass?  Dost  mean  to  tell  me  tha 's 
bin  clcmmin'  all  this  time? 

E.MMA.  A  coom  'ere  straight  from  factory. 

Sarah.  Then  tha  does  n't  move  till  tha 's  'ad  suramat  to 
cat. 

Em.ma.  My  dinner 's  ready  for  me  at  whoam,  Mrs.  Orm- 
erod. 

S.\u.\H.  Then  just  look  shar])  an'  get  it,  tha  silly  lass. 
Tha 's  no  reeght  to  go  wi'out  thy  baggin'. 


LONESOME-LIKE  193 

Emma  (putting  her  shawl  on).  All  reeght.  A'm  ofif. 

(Picks  up  teapot.) 

Sabah.  Tha  's  bin  a  world  o'  coomfort  to  me,  Emma. 
It  '11  be  'arder  to  bear  when  tha 's  gone,  Th'  thowt  's  too 
much  for  me.  Eh, lass,  A'm  feart  o'  yon  great  gaunt  build- 
ing wi'  th'  drear  windows. 

Emma.  'Appen  ma  moother 'uU  coom  in.  Tha'Udowi'a 
bit  o'  coompany .  A  '11  ask  her  to  coom  an'  fetch  thee  a  coop 
o'  tea  bye-an'-bye. 

(A  knock  at  the  door.) 

Sarah.  Who 's  theer? 

Sam  (without).  It's  only  me,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Emma.  A  do  declare  it's  that  Sam  Horrocks  again. 

Sarah.  Sam  Horrocks!  What  can  th'  lad  be  after  now? 
(Calling)  Hast  tha  wiped  thy  boots  on  scraper? 

Sam.  Yes,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Saeah.  Coom  in  then.  (Emma  in  left  corner.  Enter  Sam.) 
Tak'  thy  cap  off. 

Sam.  Yes,  Mrs.  Ormerod. 

Sarah.  What  dost  want? 

Sam.  a  '  ve  soom  business  'ere.  A  thowt  A  'd  find  thee  by 
thysel'.  A '11  coom  again   (bolting  nervously  for  the  door). 

Sarah.  Let  that  door  be.  Dost  say  tha 's  got  business 
'ere? 

Sam.  Aye,  wi'  thee.  A  'd  Hke  a  word  wi'  thee  private. 

(Emma  moves  to  open  door.) 

Sarah.  All  reeght.  Emma 's  just  goin'  to  'er  dinner. 

Emma  (speaking  through  door).  A '11  ask  my  moother  to 
step  in  later  on,  Mrs.  Ormerod,  and  thank  thee  very  much 
for  th'  teapot. 

Sarah.  A  '11  be  thankful  if  she  '11  coom.  (Exit  Emma  vrith 
teapot.)  Now,  Sam  Horrocks,  what's  the  matter  wi'  thee? 

Sam  (dropping  the  cotton-waste  he  is  fumbling  unth  and 
picking  it  up) .  It 's  a  fine  day  for  th'  time  o'  th'  year. 

14 


194  LONESOME-LIKE 

Sar.ui.  Didst  want  to  see  me  private  to  tell  me  that,  lad? 

Sam.  Naw,  not  exactly. 

Sarah.  ^Yell,  what  is  it  then?  Coom,  lad,  A'm  waitin' 
on  thee.  Art  tongue-tied?  Can't  tha  quit  mawhn'  yon  bit 
o*  waste  an'  tell  me  what  't  is  tha  wants? 

Sam  (desperately).  Mebbe  it'll  not  be  so  fine  in  th' 
mornin'. 

Sarah.  A  '11  tell  thee  what  A  'd  do  to  thee  if  A  'ad  the  use 
o'  my  'ands,  my  lad,  A  'd  coom  aside  thee  and  A  'd  box  thy 
ears.  If  tha's  got  business  wi'  me,  tha'd  best  state  it  sharp 
or  A  '11  be  showin'  thee  the  shape  o*  my  door. 

Sam.  Tha  do  fluster  a  feller  so  as  A  doan't  knaw  wheer  A 
am.  A've  not  been  nagged  like  that  theer  sin'  my  ould 
moother  died. 

Sarah.  A've  'eerd  folk  say  Sal  Horrocks  were  a  slick  un 
wi'  'er  tongue. 

Sam  (admiringh/).  She  were  that.  Rare  talker  she  were. 
She'd  lie  theer  in  'er  bed  all  day  sis  it  might  be  in  yon  corner, 
an'  call  me  all  th'  names  she  could  put  her  tongue  to,  till  A 
couldn't  tell  marccght  'and  from  ma  left.  {Still  rcviiniscent) 
Wonncrful  sperrit,  she  'ad,  considerin'  she  were  bed-ridden 
so  long.  She  were  only  a  little  un  an'  cripple  an'  all,  Inil  by 
gum,  she  could  sling  it  at  a  feller  if  'er  tea  weren't  brewed  to 
'er  taste.  Talk!  She  'd  talk  a  donkey's  yead  ofT,  she  would. 

Sarah  {on  her  mettle).  An'  .\  '11  talk  thy  silly  yoail  otT  an' 
all  if  tha  doan't  gel  sharp  to  tellin'  me  what  tha  wants  after 
in  my  'ouse,  tha  great  mazed  idiot. 

Sam.  Eh,  but  she  were  a  rare  un. 

Sarah.  The  lad  's  daft  aboot  his  moother. 

S.A.M  {detachedly,  looking  at  window;  pause).  WiuuK-rful 
breeght  the  sky  is,  to-day. 

Sarah.  Tha  great 'ulkin' fool.  A 'd  lak' a  broomstick  to 
thee  if  —  if  A  'd  the  use  o'  my  'ands. 

Sam.  Now,  if  that  is  n't  just  what  ma  moother  used  to 
say. 


LONESOME-LIKE  195 

S.-VRAH.  Dang  thy  moother.  An'  A  doan't  mean  no  disre- 
pect  to  'er  neither.  She 's  bin  in  'er  grave  this  year  an'  more, 
poor  woman. 

Sam.  a  canna  'elp  thinkin'  to  'er  all  same.  Eh,  but  she 
were  wunnerful. 

Sarah.  An' A 'd  be  wunnerful  too.  A 'd  talk  to  thee.  A'd 
call  thee  if  A  were  thy  moother  an'  A  'd  to  live  aside  o'  thee 
neeght  an'  day. 

Sam  (eagerly).  Eh,  by  gum,  but  A  wish  tha  would. 

Sarah.  Would  what? 

Sam.  Would  coom  an'  live  along  wi'  me. 

Sar.ah.  Tha  great  fool,  what  does  mean?  Art  askin'  me 
to  wed  thee? 

Sam.  a  did  n't  mean  to  oflFend  thee,  Mrs.  Ormerod.  A'm 
sorry  A  spoke.  A  allays  do  wrong  thing.  But  A  did  so  'ope 
as  tha  might  coom.  Tha  sees  A  got  used  to  moother.  A  got 
used  to  'earin'  'er  cuss  me.  A  got  used  to  doin'  for  'er  an' 
A  've  nought  to  do  in  th'  evenings  now.  It 's  terrible  lone- 
some in  th'  neeghttime.  An'  when  notion  coom  to  me,  A 
tho-^i;  as  A  'd  mention  un  to  thee  casual. 

Sarah.  Dost  mean  it,  Sam  Horrocks?  Dost  tha  know 
what  tha 's  sayin',  or  is  tha  foolin'  me? 

Sam.  O'  course  A  mean  it.  Tha  sees  A  'm  not  a  marryin' 
sort.  Th'  lasses  won't  look  at  me.  A  'm  silly  Sam  to  them, 
A  knaws  it.  A  've  a  slate  loose;  A  shan't  never  get  wed.  A 
thowt  A  'd  mebbe  a  chance  wi'  yon  lass  as  were  'ere  wi'  thee, 
but  hoo  towld  me  A  were  too  late.  A  allays  were  slow.  A 
left  askin'  too  long  an'  A've  missed  'er.  A  gets  good  money, 
Mrs.  Ormerod,  but  A  canna  talk  to  a  young  wench.  They 
mak's  me  go  'ot  and  cowld  all  over.  An'  when  curate  towld 
me  as  tha  was  to  go  to  workus,  A  thowt  A'd  a  chance  wi' 
thee.  A  knaw'd  it  were  n't  a  big  chance,  because  my  plaice 
ain't  much  cop  after  what  tha's  bin  used  to  'ere.  A've  got 
no  fine  fixin's  nor  big  chairs  an'  things  like  as  tha  used  to 
'ave.  Eh,  but  A  would  'ave  loved  to  do  for  thee  as  A  used 


196  LONESOME-LIKE 

to  do  for  ma  moother,  an'  when  A  yeerd  thee  talkin'  now 
an'  callin'  nie  a  fool  an'  th'  rest,  by  gxim,  A  just  yearned  to 
'ave  thee  for  allays.  Tha'd  fill  'er  plaice  wunnerful  well. 
A'd  just  a'  loved  to  adopt  thee. 

S.UL\n.  To  adopt  me? 

S.VM.  Ay,  for  a  moot  her.  A  'm  sorry  tha  can't  see  thy  way 
to  let  me.  A  did  n't  mean  no  offence  (turning  to  the  door). 

Sarah.  *Ere,  lad,  tha  tell  me  this.  If  A'd  said  tha  might 
tak'  me  for  thy  mootlicr,  what  wouldst  ha'  done? 

S-Ajn.  \Miy,  kissed  thee,  an'  takken  thee  oop  in  ma  arms 
whoam  to  thy  bed.  It 's  standin'  ready  in  yonder  wi'  clean 
sheets  an'  all,  an'  a  new  quilt  from  Co-op.  A  'opes  you  '11 
pardon  th'  liberty  o'  mentioning  it. 

Sarah.  A  new  quilt,  Sam?  ^^^lat  's  color? 

Sam.  Red,  wi'  blue  strij)es  down  'er. 

S.^JL^J^.  A'm  not  a  light  weight,  tha  knows. 

Sam.  A'd  carry  thee  easy  —  "Strong  in  th'  arm  and 
weak  in  th'  yead."  It 's  an  ould  sayin',but  it's  a  good  un, 
an'  it  fits. 

Sarah.  Wilt  tha  tr>',  Sam  Horrocks?  God  bless  thee, 
\\nlt  tha  trj',  lad? 

Sam.  Dost  mean  it,  Mrs.  Ormerod?  Dost  mean  tha '11 
coom?  Tha's  not  coddin'  a  feller,  art  tha? 

Sarah.  No,  A'm  not  coddin'.  Kiss  me,  Sam,  my  son. 

{He  kisses  her  and  lifts  her  in  his  arms.) 

Sam.  By  gum,  but  that  were  good.  A  '11  coom  back  fur 
thy  box. 

Sarah.  Carry  me  careful,  tha  great  luny.  A'm  not  a 
sack  o*  flour. 

Sam.  Eh,  but  A  likes  to  year  thee  talk.  Von  was  real 
mootherly,  it  were. 

(Exit  through  door,  carrying  her.) 

[Curtain  at  clink  of  latch  ] 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA^ 

J.  M.  SYNGE 

CHARACTERS 

Mauhya,  an  old  woman 
Bartley,  her  son 
Cathleen,  her  daughter 
Nora,  a  younger  daughtei" 
Men  and  Women 

SCENE:  An  island  off  the  West  of  Ireland.  Cottage  kitchen, 
uiiih  nets,  oilskins,  sjpinning-wheel,  some  new  boards 
standing  by  the  wall,  etc.  Cathleen,  a  girl  of  about 
twenty,  finishes  kneading  cake,  and  puis  it  down  in  the 
pot-oven  by  the  fire;  then  wipes  her  hands,  and  begins  to 
spin  at  the  wheel.  Nora,  a  young  girl,  puts  her  head  in 
at  the  door. 

Nora  (in  a  low  voice).  Where  is  she? 
Cathleen.  She  's  lying  down,  God  help  her,  and  maybe 
sleeping,  if  she 's  able. 

(Nora  comes  in  softly,  and  takes  a  bundle  from  under 
her  shawl.) 
Cathleen  (spinning  the  wheel  rapidly) .  What  is  it  you 
have? 
Nora.  The  young  priest  is  after  bringing  them.  It's  a 

^  Included  by  permission  of  Messrs.  John  W.  Luce  and  Company. 


198  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

shirt  and  a  plain  stocking  were  got  off  a  drowned  man  in 
Donegal. 

(Catiileen  stops  her  wheel  tcith  a  sudden  movement,  and 
leans  out  to  listen.) 
Nora.  "We're  to  find  out  if  it 's  Micliacl's  they  are;  some 
time  herself  will  be  down  looking  by  the  sea. 

Cathleen.  How  would  they  be  Michael's,  Xora?  How 
would  he  go  the  length  of  that  way  to  the  far  north? 

Nora.  The  young  priest  says  he  's  known  the  like  of  it. 
"If  it's  Michael's  they  are,"  says  he,  "you  can  tell  herself 
he  's  got  a  clean  burial  by  the  grace  of  God,  and  if  they're 
not  his,  let  no  one  say  a  word  about  tlicm,  for  she'll  be  get- 
ting her  death,"  says  he,  "with  crying  and  lamenting." 
{The  door  which  Nora  half  closed  is  blown  open  by  a  gust 
of  wind.) 
C.VTHLEEN  {looking  out  anxiously).    Djd  you  ask  him 
would  he  stop  Bartley  going  this  day  with  the  horses  to  the 
Galway  fair? 

Nora.  "I  won't  stop  him."  says  he,  "but  let  you  not  bo 
afraid.  Herself  does  be  saying  prayers  half  through  the 
night,  and  the  Almighty  God  won't  leave  her  destitute," 
says  he,  "with  no  son  living." 

Catiileen.  Is  the  sea  bad  by  the  while  rocks,  Nora? 
Nora.  Middling  bad,  God  help  us.  There's  a  great  roar- 
ing in  the  west,  and  it's  worse  it'll  be  getting  when  the 
tide  's  turned  to  the  wind. 

{She  goes  over  to  the  table  with  the  bundle.) 
Shall  I  open  it  now? 

Catiileen.  Maybe  she  'd  wake  up  on  us,  and  come  in 
before  we'd  done.  {Cuming  to  the  table)  It's  a  long  time 
we  '11  be,  and  the  two  of  us  crying. 

Nora  {goes  to  the  inner  door  and  listens).  She's  moving 
about  on  the  bed.  She  '11  be  coming  in  a  minute. 

Catiileen.  Give  me  the  huUlor,  ami  I  '11  jiut  thom  up  in 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  199 

the  turf -loft,  the  way  she  won't  know  of  them  at  all,  and 
maybe  when  the  tide  turns  she  '11  be  going  down  to  see  would 
he  be  floating  from  the  east. 

{They  put  the  ladder  against  the  gable  of  the  chimney; 
Cathleen  goes  up  a  few  steps  and  hides  the  bundle  in 
the  turf -loft.  IVIaurya  comes  from  the  inner  room.) 

Maurya  (looking  up  at  Cathleen  and  speaking  queru- 
lously) .  Is  n't  it  turf  enough  you  have  for  this  day  and 
evening? 

Cathleen.  There's  a  cake  baking  at  the  fire  for  a  short 
space  (throwing  down  the  turf)  and  Bartley  will  want  it 
when  the  tide  turns  if  he  goes  to  Connemara. 

(Nora  picks  up  the  turf  and  pids  it  round  the  pot-oven.) 

INIaurya  {sitting  down  on  a  stool  at  the  fire).  He  won't  go 
this  day  with  the  wind  rising  from  the  south  and  west.  He 
won't  go  this  day,  for  the  young  priest  will  stop  him  surely. 

Nora.  ,He'll  not  stop  him,  mother,  and  I  heard  Eamon 
Simon  and  Stephen  Pheety  and  Colum  Shawn  saying  he 
would  go. 

IVIaurya.  WTiere  is  he  itself? 

Nora.  He  went  down  to  see  would  there  be  another  boat 
sailmg  in  the  week,  and  I'm  thinking  it  won't  be  long  till 
he's  here  now,  for  the  tide 's  turning  at  the  green  head,  and 
the  hooker  's  tacking  from  the  east. 

Cathleen.  I  hear  someone  passing  the  big  stones. 

Nora  {looking  oid) .  He 's  coming  now,  and  he  in  a  hurry. 

Bartley  {comes  in  and  looks  round  the  room;  speaking 
sadly  and  quietly).  Where  is  the  bit  of  new  rope,  Cathleen, 
was  bought  in  Connemara? 

Cathleen  {coming  down).  Give  it  to  him,  Nora;  it  *s  on 
a  nail  by  the  white  boards.  I  hung  it  up  this  morning,  for 
the  pig  with  the  black  feet  was  eating  it. 

Nora  {giving  him  a  rope).  Is  that  it,  Bartley? 

Maurya.  You  'd  do  right  to  leave  that  rope,  Bartley, 


200  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

hanging  by  the  boards.  (Bartley  takes  the  rope.)  It  will  be 
wanting  in  this  place,  I  'ni  telling  you,  if  Michael  is  washed 
up  to-morrow  morning,  or  the  next  morning,  or  any  morn- 
ing in  the  week,  for  it 's  a  deep  grave  we  '11  make  him  by  the 
grace  of  God. 

Bartley  {begirming  to  work  with  the  rope).  I  've  no  halter 
the  way  I  can  ride  down  on  the  mare,  and  I  must  go  now 
quickly.  This  is  the  one  boat  going  for  two  weeks  or  beyond 
it,  and  the  fair  will  be  a  good  fair  for  horses,  I  heard  them 
saying  below. 

Maurya.  It 's  a  hard  thing  they  '11  l>e  saying  below  if  the 
body  is  washed  up  and  there's  no  man  in  it  to  make  the 
coffin,  and  I  after  giving  a  big  price  for  the  finest  white 
boards  you'd  find  in  Connemara. 

(She  looks  round  at  the  boards.) 

Bartley.  How  would  it  be  washed  up,  and  we  after 
looking  each  day  for  nine  days,  and  a  strong  wind  blowing 
a  while  back  from  the  west  and  south."* 

Maurya.  If  it  was  n't  found  itself,  that  wind  is  raising 
the  sea,  and  there  was  a  star  up  against  the  moon,  and  it 
rising  in  the  night.  If  it  was  a  hundred  horses,  or  a  thousand 
horses  you  had  itself,  what  is  the  price  of  a  thousand  horses 
against  a  son  where  there  is  one  son  only? 

Bartley  (irorkirig  at  the  halter,  to  Cathleen).  lyct  you 
go  down  each  day,  and  see  the  sheep  are  n't  jumping  in  on 
the  rye,  and  if  the  j()bi>or  conies  you  can  sell  the  pig  with 
the  black  feet  if  there  is  a  good  price  g(»ing. 

Maurya.  How  would  the  like  of  her  get  a  good  price  for 
a  pig? 

Bartley  (to  Catiileen).  If  the  west  wind  holds  with 
the  last  bit  of  the  moon  let  you  and  Nora  get  up  weed 
enough  for  another  cock  for  the  kelp.  It 's  hard  set  we'll 
be  from  this  day  with  no  one  in  it  but  one  man  to  work. 

Maurya.  It's  hard  set  we'll  be  surely  the  day  you're 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  201 

drownd'd  with  the  rest.  What  way  will  I  live  and  the  girls 
wnth  me,  and  I  an  old  woman  looking  for  the  grave? 

(Babtley  lays  down  the  halter,  takes  off  his  old  coat, 
and  'puts  on  a  newer  one  of  the  same  flannel.) 

Bartley  {to  Nora)  .  Is  she  coming  to  the  pier? 

Nora  {looking  out).  She's  passing  the  green  head  and 
letting  fall  her  sails. 

Bartley  {getting  his  purse  and  tobacco) .  I  '11  have  half  an 
hour  to  go  down,  and  you'll  see  me  coming  again  in  two 
days,  or  in  three  days,  or  maybe  in  four  days  if  the  wind  is 
bad. 

Maurya  {turning  round  to  the  fire,  and  putting  her  shawl 
over  her  head) .  Is  n't  it  a  hard  and  cruel  man  won't  hear  a 
word  from  an  old  woman,  and  she  holding  him  from  the  sea? 

Cathleen.  It 's  the  life  of  a  young  man  to  be  going  on 
the  sea,  and  who  would  listen  to  an  old  woman  with  one 
thing  and  she  saying  it  over? 

Bartley  {taking  the  halter) .  I  must  go  now  quickly.  I  '11 
ride  down  on  the  red  mare,  and  the  gray  pony  '11  run  behind 
me.  The  blessing  of  God  on  you. 

{He  goes  out.) 

Maurya  {crying  out  as  he  is  in  the  door).  He's  gone  now, 
God  spare  us,  and  we  '11  not  see  him  again.  He 's  gone  now, 
and  when  the  black  night  is  falling  I  '11  have  no  son  left  me 
in  the  world. 

Cathleen.  Why  would  n't  you  give  him  your  blessing 
and  he  looking  round  in  the  door?  Isn't  it  sorrow  enough 
is  on  everyone  in  this  house  without  your  sending  him 
out  with  an  unlucky  word  behind  him,  and  a  hard  word  in 
his  ear? 

(Maurya  takes  up  the  tongs  and  begins  raking  the  fire 
aimlessly  without  looking  round.) 

Nora  {turning  towards  her) .  You  're  taking  away  the  turf 
from  the  cake. 


202  RroERS  TO  THE  SEA 

Cathleen  (crying  out).  The  Son  of  God  forgive  us,  Nora, 
we're  after  forgetting  his  bit  of  bread. 

{She  comes  over  to  the  fire.) 

Nora.  And  it 's destroyed  he'll  be  going  till  dark  night, 
and  he  after  eating  nothing  since  the  sun  went  up. 

Catiileex  {turning  the  cake  out  of  the  oven).  It's  de- 
stroyed he  '11  be,  surely.  There 's  no  sense  left  on  any  person 
in  a  house  where  an  old  woman  will  be  talking  for  ever. 

(^L\UKYA  sicays  herself  on  her  stool.) 

Cathleen  (cutting  off  some  of  the  bread  and  rolling  it  in  a 
cloth,  to  Maurya).  Let  you  go  down  now  to  the  spring 
well  and  give  him  this  and  he  passing.  You  'U  see  him  then 
and  the  dark  word  will  be  broken,  and  you  can  say,  "God 
speed  you."  the  way  he'll  be  easy  in  his  mind. 

^L\urya  (taking  the  bread).  Will  I  be  in  it  as  soon  as 
himself? 

Cathleen.  If  you  go  now  quickly. 

Maurya  (standing  up  unsteadily).  It's  hard  set  I  am  to 
walk. 

Cathleen  (looking  at  her  anxiously).  Give  her  the 
stick,  Nora,  or  maj'be  she'll  slip  on  the  big  stones. 

Nora.  What  stick? 

Cathleen.  The  stick  Michael  brought  from  Connemara. 

Maurya  (taking  a  stick  Nor.\  gives  her) .  In  the  big  world 
the  old  people  do  be  leaving  things  after  them  for  their  sons 
and  children,  but  in  this  place  it  is  the  young  men  do  be 
leaving  things  behind  for  them  that  do  be  old. 

(She  goes  out  slowly.  Nora  goes  over  to  the  ladder.) 

Cathleen.  Wait,  Norn,  maybe  she'd  turn  back  quickly. 
She's  that  sorry,  God  help  her.  you  wouldn't  know  the 
thing  she  'd  do. 

Nor.\.  Is  she  gone  round  by  the  bush? 

C.\TiiLEEN  (looking  out).  She's  gone  now.  Throw  it  down 
quickly,  for  the  Lord  knows  when  she'll  be  out  of  it  again. 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  {    203 


Nora  (getting  the  bundle  from  the  loft).  The  young  priest 
said  he  'd  be  passing  to-morrow,  and  we  might  go  down  and 
speak  to  him  below  if  it 's  Michael's  they  are  surely. 

Cathleen  (taking  the  bundle) .  Did  he  say  what  way  they 
were  found? 

Nora  (coming  down).  "There  were  two  men,"  says  he, 
"and  they  rowing  round  with  poteen  before  the  cocks 
crowed,  and  the  oar  of  one  of  them  caught  the  body,  and 
they  passing  the  black  cliffs  of  the  north." 

Cathleen  (trying  to  open  the  bundle).  Give  me  a  knife, 
Nora;  the  string 's  perished  with  the  salt  water,  and  there's 
a  black  knot  on  it  you  would  n't  loosen  in  a  week. 

NoR.1  {giving  her  a  knife) .  I  've  heard  tell  it  was  a  long 
way  to  Donegal. 

Cathleen  (cutting  the  string) .  It  is  surely.  There  was  a 
man  in  here  a  while  ago  —  the  man  sold  us  that  knife  — 
and  he  said  if  you  set  off  walking  from  the  rocks  beyond,  it 
would  be  seven  days  you'd  be  in  Donegal. 

Nora.  And  what  time  would  a  man  take,  and  he  float- 
ing? 

(Cathleen  opens  the  bundle  and  takes  out  a  bit  of  a 
stocking.   They  look  at  them  eagerly.) 

Cathleen  (in  a  low  voice).  The  Lord  spare  us,  Nora! 
is  n't  it  a  queer  hard  thing  to  say  if  it 's  his  they  are  surely? 

Nora.  I  '11  get  his  shirt  off  the  hook  the  way  we  can  put 
the  one  flannel  on  the  other.  (She  looks  through  some  clothes 
hanging  in  the  corner)  It 's  not  with  them,  Cathleen,  and 
where  will  it  be? 

Cathleen.  I  'm  thinking  Bartley  put  it  on  him  in  the 
morning,  for  his  own  shirt  was  heavy  with  the  salt  in  it. 
(Pointing  to  the  corner)  There's  a  bit  of  a  sleeve  was  of  the 
same  stuff.  Give  me  tha.t  and  it  will  do. 

(Nora  brings  it  to  her  and  they  compare  the  flannel.) 

Cathleen.  It's  the  same  stuff,  Nora;  but  if  it  is  itself, 
are  n't  there  great  rolls  of  it  in  the  shops  of  Galway,  and 


204  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

is  n't  it  many  another  man  may  have  a  shirt  of  it  as  well  as 
Michael  himself? 

NoiL\  (ivho  has  taken  up  the  stocking  and  counted  the 
stitches,  crying  out)  It's  Michael,  Cathleen,  it's  ALchael; 
God  spare  his  soul  and  what  will  herself  say  when  she  hears 
this  story,  and  Barlley  on  the  sea? 

Cathleen  {taking  the  stocking).  It's  a  plain  stocking. 

Nora.  It 's  the  second  one  of  the  third  pair  I  knitted,  and 
I  put  up  three  score  stitches,  and  I  dropped  four  of  them. 

Cathleen  {counts  the  stitches).  It's  that  number  is  in  it. 
(Crying  out)  Ah,  Nora,  isn't  it  a  bitter  thing  to  think  of 
him  floating  that  way  to  the  far  nortli.  and  no  one  to  keen 
him  but  the  black  hags  that  do  be  flying  on  the  sea? 

Nora  {su-inging  herself  round,  atid  throwing  out  her  arms 
on  the  clothes).  And  isn't  it  a  pitiful  thing  when  there  is 
nothing  left  of  a  man  who  was  a  great  rower  and  fisher,  but 
a  bit  of  an  old  shirt  and  a  plain  stocking? 

Cathleen  {after  on  instant).  Toll  me  is  herself  coming, 
Nora?  I  hear  a  little  sound  on  the  path. 

Nora  {looking  out).  She  is,  Catlilcen.  She's  coming  up 
to  the  door. 

Cathleen.  Put  these  things  away  before  she'll  come  in. 
Mayl)e  it 's  easier  she'll  bo  after  giving  her  blessing  to  Bart- 
ley,  and  we  won't  let  on  we've  hoard  anything  the  time 
he 's  on  the  sea. 

Nora  {helping  Cathleen  to  close  the  bundle).  We'll  put 
them  here  in  the  corner. 

{They  put  them  into  a  hole  in  the  chimney  corner.  Cath- 
leen goes  back  to  the  spinning  wheel.) 

Nora.  Will  she  see  it  wjis  crying  I  wtus? 

Cathleen.  Keep  your  back  to  the  door  the  way  the 
light  Ml  not  be  on  you. 

(XoRA  sits  down  at  the  chimney  corner,  mth  her  back  to 
the  door.  Maurya  comes  in  very  slowly,  without  look- 
ing at  the  girls,  atid  goes  over  to  her  stool  at  the  other 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  205 

side  of  the  fire.  The  cloth  vnth  the  bread  is  still  in  her 
hand.  The  girls  look  at  each  other,  and  Nora  points 
to  the  bundle  of  bread.) 

Cathleen  (after  spinning  for  a  moment) .  You  did  n't  give 
him  his  bit  of  bread? 

(Maurya  begins  to  keen  softly,  without  turning  round.) 

Cathleen.  Did  you  see  him  riding  down? 

(Maurya  goes  on  keening.) 

Cathleen  (a  little  impatiently) .  God  forgive  you;  isn't  it 
a  better  thing  to  raise  your  voice  and  tell  what  you  seen, 
than  to  be  making  lamentation  for  a  thing  that's  done? 
Did  you  see  Bartley,  I  'm  saying  to  you. 

Maurya  (udth  a  weak  voice).  My  heart 's  broken  from 
this  day. 

Cathleen  (as  before).  Did  you  see  Bartley? 

IVIaurya.  I  seen  the  fearfulest  thing. 

Cathleen  (leaves  her  wheel  and  looks  out) .  God  forgive 
you;  he 's  riding  the  mare  now  over  the  green  head,  and  the 
gTay  pony  behind  him. 

Maurya  (starts,  so  that  her  shawl  falls  back  from  her  head 
and  shows  her  white  tossed  hair;  with  a  frightened  voice) .  The 
gray  pony  behind  him. 

Cathleen  (coming  to  the  fire).  What  is  it  ails  you,  at  all? 

Maurya  (speaking  very  slowly) .  I ' ve  seen  the  fearfulest 
thing  any  person  has  seen,  since  the  day  Bride  Dara  seen 
the  dead  man  with  the  child  in  his  arms. 

Cathleen  and  Nora.  Uah. 

(They  crouch  dovm  in  front  of  the  old  woman  at  the  fire.) 

Nora.  Tell  us  what  it  is  you  seen. 

Maurya.  I  went  down  to  the  spring-well,  and  I  stood 
there  saying  a  prayer  to  myself.  Then  Bartley  came  along, 
and  he  riding  on  the  red  mare  with  the  gray  pony  behind 
him.  (She  puts  up  her  hands,  as  if  to  hide  something  from  her 
eyes.)  The  Son  of  God  spare  us,  Nora! 


206  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

Cathleen.  What  is  it  you  seen? 

Maurya.  I  seen  ^lichael  himself. 

Cathleen  (speaking  softly).  You  did  not,  mother;  it 
wasn  't  Michael  you  seen,  for  his  body  is  after  being  found 
in  the  far  north,  and  he's  got  a  clean  burial  by  the  grace  of 
God. 

Maurya  (a  little  defiantly) .  I  'm  after  seeing  him  this  day, 
and  he  riding  and  galloping.  Bartley  came  first  on  the  red 
marc;  and  I  tried  to  say  "God  speed  you,"  but  something 
choked  the  words  in  my  throat.  He  went  by  quickly;  and, 
"  The  blessing  of  God  on  you,"  says  he,  and  I  could  say  noth- 
ing. I  looked  up  then,  and  I  crj'ing,  at  the  gray  pony,  and 
there  was  Michael  upon  it  —  with  fine  clothes  on  him,  and 
new  shoes  on  his  feet . 

Cathleen  (begins  to  keen).  It's  destroyed  we  are  from 
this  day.  It's  destroyed,  surely. 

NouA.  Didn't  the  young  priest  say  the  Almighty  God 
would  n't  leave  her  deslilute  with  no  son  living? 

Maurya  (in  a  low  voice,  but  clearly).  It 's  little  the  like  of 
him  knows  of  the  sea,  .  .  .  Bartley  will  be  lost  now,  and 
let  you  call  in  Eamon  and  make  me  a  good  coflin  out  of  the 
white  boards,  for  I  won't  live  after  them.  I've  had  a  hus- 
band, and  a  husband's  father,  and  six  sons  in  this  hou5e  — 
six  fine  men,  though  it  was  a  hard  birth  I  had  with  every 
one  of  them  and  they  coming  to  the  world  —  and  some  of 
them  were  found  and  some  of  thorn  wore  not  found,  but 
they're  gone  now,  the  lot  of  them.  .  .  .  There  were 
Stephen,  and  Shawn,  were  lost  in  the  great  wind,  and  found 
after  in  the  Bay  of  (Gregory  of  the  Golden  Month,  and  car- 
ric<l  up  the  two  of  thorn  on  the  one  plank,  and  in  by  that 
door. 

(She  pauses  for  a  moment,  the  girls  start  as  if  they  heard 
something  through  the  door  that  is  half-open  behind 
them.) 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  207 

Nora  (in  a  whis'per).  Did  you  hear  that,  Cathleen?  Did 
you  hear  a  noise  in  the  northeast? 

Cathleen  (in  a  whisper).  There's  someone  after  crying 
out  by  the  seashore. 

ISIaurya  {continues  vyithout  hearing  anything).  There 
was  Sheajnus  and  his  father,  and  his  own  father  again,  were 
lost  in  a  dark  night,  and  not  a  stick  or  sign  was  seen  of 
them  when  the  sun  went  up.  There  was  Patch  after  was 
drowned  out  of  a  curagh  that  turned  over.  I  was  sitting 
here  with  Bartley,  and  he  a  baby,  lying  on  my  two  knees, 
and  I  seen  two  women,  and  three  women,  and  four  women 
coming  in,  and  they  crossing  themselves,  and  not  saying  a 
word.  I  looked  out  then,  and  there  were  men  coming  after 
them,  and  they  holding  a  thing  in  the  half  of  a  red  sail,  and 
water  dripping  out  of  it  —  it  was  a  dry  day,  Nora  —  and 
leaving  a  track  to  the  door. 

{She  pauses  again  vnth  her  hand  stretched  out  towards 
the  door.  It  opens  softly  and  old  women  begin  to  come 
in,  crossing  themselves  on  the  threshold,  and  kneeling 
down  in  front  of  the  stage  with  red  petticoats  over  their 
heads.) 

IS£\uiiYA  {half  in  a  dream,  to  Cathleen).  Is  it  Patch,  or 
Michael,  or  what  is  it  at  all? 

Cathleen.  Michael  is  after  being  found  in  the  far  north, 
and  when  he  is  found  there  how  could  he  be  here  in  this 
place? 

IVIaurya.  There  does  be  a  power  of  young  men  floating 
round  in  the  sea,  and  what  way  would  they  know  if  it  was 
IVIichael  they  had,  or  another  man  like  him,  for  when  a  man 
is  nine  days  in  the  sea,  and  the  wind  blowing,  it 's  hard  set 
his  own  mother  would  be  to  say  what  man  was  it. 

Cathleen.  It's  Michael,  God  spare  him,  for  they're 
after  sending  us  a  bit  of  his  clothes  from  the  far  north. 
{She  reaches  out  and  hands  ML^urya  the  clothes  that  be- 


208  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

longed  to  Michael.  ^L\URyA  stands  up  slowly,  and 
takes  them  in  her  hands.  Nora  looks  out.) 
Nora.  They're  carrj-ing  a  thing  among  them  and  there's 
water  dripping  out  of  it  and  leaving  a  track  by  the  big 
stones. 

Cathleen  (in  a  whisper  to  the  women  who  have  come  in). 
Is  it  Bartley  it  is? 

One  of  the  Women.  It  is  surely,  God  rest  his  soul. 

{Two  younger  women  come  in  and  pull  out  the  table. 

Then  men  carry  in  the  body  of  Hartley,  laid  on  a 

plank,  with  a  bit  of  a  sail  over  it,  and  lay  it  on  the  table.) 

C.\thleen  (to  the  icomcn,  as  they  are  doing  so) .  What  way 

was  he  drowned? 

One  of  the  Women.  The  gray  pony  knocked  him  into 
the  sea,  and  he  was  washed  out  where  there  is  a  great  surf 
on  the  white  rocks. 

(^L'V.L'RYA  has  gone  over  and  knelt  down  at  the  head  of 

the  table.    The  icomen  are  keening  softly  and  swaying 

themselves  icith  a  sloio  movement.    Cathleen  and 

Nora  kneel  at  the  other  end  of  the  table.    The  men 

kneel  near  the  door.) 

Maurya  {raising  her  head  and  speaking  as  if  she  did  not 

see  the  people  around  her).  They're  all  gone  now,  and  there 

isn't  anyt hing more  the  sea  can  do  to  me.  .  .  .  I'll  have  no 

call  now  to  be  up  crying  and  praying  when  the  wind  breaks 

from  the  south,  and  you  can  hear  the  surf  is  in  the  east,  and 

the  surf  is  in  the  west,  making  a  great  stir  with  the  two 

noises,  and  they  hitting  one  on  the  other.   I'll  have  no  call 

now  to  be  going  down  and  getting  Holy  Water  in  the  dark 

nights  after  Samhain,  and  I  won't  care  what  way  the  sea  is 

when  the  other  women  will  be  keening.   {To  Nora)   Give 

me  the  Holy  Water,  Nora;  there's  a  small  sup  still  on  the 

dresser. 

(Nora  gives  it  to  her.) 


RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA  209 

Maurya  {drops  Michael's  clothes  across  Bartley's  feet, 
and  sprinkles  the  Holy  Water  over  him).  It  is  n't  that  I 
have  n't  prayed  for  you,  Bartley,  to  the  Almighty  God.  It 
is  n't  that  I  have  n't  said  prayers  in  the  dark  night  till  you 
wouldn't  know  what  I  'd  be  saying;  but  it's  a  great  rest 
I'll  have  now,  and  it's  time  surely.  It's  a  great  rest  I'll 
have  now,  and  great  sleeping  in  the  long  nights  after  Sam- 
hain,  if  it 's  only  a  bit  of  wet  flour  we  do  have  to  eat,  and 
maybe  a  fish  that  would  be  stinking. 

(She  kneels  down  again,  crossing  herself,  and  saying 
prayers  under  her  breath.) 

Cathleen  (to  an  old  man).  Maybe  yourself  and  Eamon 
would  make  a  coffin  when  the  sun  rises.  We  have  fine  white 
boards  herself  bought,  God  help  her,  thinking  Michael 
would  be  found,  and  I  have  a  new  cake  you  can  eat  while 
you  '11  be  working. 

The  Old  Man  (looking  at  the  boards).  Are  there  nails 
with  them? 

Cathleen.  There  are  not,  Colum;  we  did  n't  think  of  the 
nails. 

Another  Man.  It 's  a  great  wonder  she  would  n't  think 
of  the  nails,  and  all  the  coffins  she  's  seen  made  already. 

Cathleen.  It 's  getting  old  she  is,  and  broken. 

(Maurya  stands  up  again  very  slowly  and  spreads  out 
the  pieces  of  Michael's  clothes  beside  the  body,  sprink- 
ling them  with  the  last  of  the  Holy  Water.) 

Nora  (in  a  whisper  to  Cathleen)  .  She 's  quiet  now  and 
easy;  but  the  day  Michael  was  drowned  you  could  hear  her 
crying  out  from  this  to  the  spring- well.  It 's  fonder  she  was 
of  Michael,  and  would  anyone  have  thought  that? 

Cathleen  (slowly  and  clearly).  An  old  woman  will  be 
soon  tired  with  anything  she  will  do,  and  isn't  it  nine  days 
herself  is  after  crying  and  keening,  and  making  great 
sorrow  in  the  house? 

13 


210  RIDERS  TO  THE  SEA 

^Iaurya  (piUs  the  empty  cup  mouth  dowmrards  on  the 
table,  and  lays  her  hands  together  on  Bartley's feet) .  They  're 
all  together  this  time,  and  the  end  is  come.  May  the  Al- 
mighty God  have  mercy  on  Bartley's  soul,  and  on  Michael's 
soul,  and  on  the  souls  of  Sheamus  and  Patch,  and  Stephen 
and  Shawn  (bending  her  head) ;  and  may  lie  have  mercy  on 
my  soul,  Nora,  and  on  the  soul  of  everyone  is  left  living  in 
the  world. 

{She  pauses,  and  the  keen  rises  a  little  more  loudly  from 
the  women,  then  sinks  away.) 

^L\uuvA  (continuing).  Michael  has  a  clean  burial  in  the 
far  north,  by  the  grace  of  the  Almighty  God.  Bartley  will 
have  a  fine  coffin  out  of  the  white  boards,  and  a  deep  grave 
surely.  Wliat  more  can  we  want  than  that?  No  man  at  all 
can  be  living  for  ever,  and  we  must  be  satisfied. 

(She  kneels  down  again,  and  the  curtain  falls  slowly). 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE^ 

WILLIAM  BUTLER  YEATS 

CHARACTERS 

Maurteen  Bruin 
Bridget  Bruin,  his  wife 
Shawn  Bruin,  their  son 
Maire  Bruin,  wife  of  Shawn 
Father  Hart 
A  Faery  Child 

SCENE:  In  the  Barony  of  Kilmacowan,  in  the  county  of 
Sligo,  at  a  remote  time. 

Setting  :  a  room  with  a  hearth  on  the  floor  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  deep  alcove  on  the  right.  There  are  benches  in  the 
alcove,  and  a  table;  a  crucifix  on  the  wall.  The  alcove  is 
full  of  a  glow  of  light  from  the  fire.  There  is  an  open 
door  facing  the  audience,  to  the  left,  and  to  the  left  of  this 
a  bench.  Through  the  door  one  can  see  the  forest.  It  is 
night,  but  the  moon  or  a  late  sunset  glimmers  through  the 
trees,  and  carries  the  eye  far  off  into  a  vague,  mysterious 
world.  Maurteen  Bruin,  Shawtst  Bruin,  and  Brid- 
get Bruin  sit  in  the  alcove  at  the  table,  or  about  the  fire. 
They  are  dressed  in  the  costume  of  some  remote  time,  and 
near  them  sits  an  old  priest.  Father  Hart,  in  the  garb 
of  a  friar.    There  is  food  and  drink  upon  the  table. 

^  Reprinted  by  arrangement  with  Mr.  Yeats  and  the  Macmillan  Com- 
pany, New  York,  publishers  of  Mr.  Yeats's  Collected  Works  (1912). 


212        THE  L.VND  OF  IIE.VRT'S  DESIRE 

Maire  Bruin  stands  by  the  door,  reading  a  yellow  manu' 
script.  If  she  looks  up,  she  can  see  through  the  door  into 
the  wood. 

Bridget  Bruin 

Because  I  bade  her  go  and  feed  the  calves, 
She  took  that  old  book  down  out  of  the  thatch 
And  has  been  doubled  over  it  all  day. 
We  should  be  deafened  by  her  groans  and  moans 
Had  she  to  work  as  some  do,  Father  Hart, 
Get  up  at  dawn  like  me,  and  mend  and  scour; 
Or  ride  abroad  in  the  boisterous  night  like  you, 
The  pyx  and  blessed  bread  under  your  arm. 


You  are  too  cross. 


Shawn  Bruin 

Bridget  Bruin 

The  young  side  with  the  young. 

]Maurteen  Bruin 

She  quarrels  with  my  wife  a  bit  at  times, 
And  is  too  deep  just  now  in  the  old  book! 
But  do  not  blame  her  greatly;  she  will  grow 
As  quiet  as  a  puff-ball  in  a  tree 
When  but  the  moons  of  marriage  dawn  and  die 
For  half  a  score  of  times.  * 

Father  H.uit 

Tlirir  hearts  are  wild 
As  be  the  hearts  of  birds,  till  chililron  come. 

Bridget  Bki  in 

She  would  not  mind  the  griddle,  milk  the  cow, 
Or  even  lay  the  knives  and  spread  the  cloth. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE        213 

Father  Hart 
I  never  saw  her  read  a  book  before; 
What  may  it  be? 

Maurteen  Bruin 

I  do  not  rightly  know; 
It  has  been  in  the  thatch  for  fifty  years. 
My  father  told  me  my  grandfather  wrote  it, 
Killed  a  red  heifer  and  bound  it  with  the  hide. 
But  draw  your  chair  this  way  —  supper  is  spread; 
And  little  good  he  got  out  of  the  book. 
Because  it  filled  his  house  with  roaming  bards. 
And  roaming  ballad-makers  and  the  like, 
And  wasted  all  his  goods.  —  Here  is  the  wine: 
The  griddle  bread  's  beside  you,  Father  Hart. 
Colleen,  what  have  you  got  there  in  the  book 
That  you  must  leave  the  bread  to  cool?  Had  I, 
Or  had  my  father,  read  or  written  books 
There  were  no  stocking  stuffed  with  golden  guineas 
To  come,  when  I  am  dead,  to  Shawn  and  you. 

Father  Hart 
You  should  not  fill  your  head  with  foolish  dreams. 
What  are  you  reading? 

Maire  Bruin 

How  a  Princess  Edane, 
A  daughter  of  a  King  of  Ireland,  heard 
A  voice  singing  on  a  May  Eve  like  this. 
And  followed,  half  awake  and  half  asleep. 
Until  she  came  into  the  Land  of  Faery, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  godly  and  grave, 
WTiere  nobody  gets  old  and  crafty  and  wise. 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  bitter  of  tongue; 
And  she  is  still  there,  busied  with  a  dance. 


214        THE  LAND  OF  HE.VRT'S  DESIRE 

Deep  in  the  dewy  shadow  of  a  wood, 

Or  where  stars  walk  upon  a  mountain-top. 

Maurteen  Bruix 
Persuade  the  colleen  to  put  by  the  book: 
My  grandfather  would  mutter  just  such  things, 
And  he  was  no  judge  of  a  dog  or  horse, 
And  any  idle  boy  could  blarney  him: 
Just  speak  your  mind. 

Father  Hart 

Put  it  away,  my  colleen. 
God  spreads  the  heavens  above  us  like  great  wings. 
And  gives  a  little  round  of  deeds  and  days. 
And  then  come  the  wrecked  angels  and  set  snares. 
And  bait  them  with  light  hopes  and  heavy  dreams, 
Until  the  heart  is  puffed  with  pride  and  goes. 
Half  shuddering  and  half  joyous,  from  God's  peace: 
And  it  was  some  wrecked  angel,  blind  from  tears, 
Who  flattered  Edane's  heart  with  merry  words. 
My  colleen,  I  have  seen  some  other  girls 
Restless  and  ill  at  case,  but  years  went  by 
And  they  grew  like  their  neighbours  antl  were  glad 
In  minding  children,  working  at  the  churn. 
And  gossiping  of  weddings  and  of  wakes; 
For  life  moves  out  of  a  red  flare  of  dreams 
Into  a  common  light  of  common  hours, 
Until  old  age  bring  the  red  flare  again. 

^Iaurteen  BuriN 
That's  true  —  but  she's  too  young  to  know  it's  true. 

Bridget  Briin 
She 's  oUl  enough  to  know  that  it  is  wrong 
To  mope  and  idle. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESHIE         215 

Shawn  Bruin 

I've  little  blame  for  her; 
And  mother's  tongue  were  harder  still  to  bear, 
But  for  her  fancies:  this  is  May  Eve  too, 
When  the  good  people  post  about  the  world. 
And  surely  one  may  think  of  them  to-night. 
Maire,  have  you  the  primroses  to  fling 
Before  the  door  to  make  a  golden  path 
For  them  to  bring  good  luck  into  the  house? 
Remember,  they  may  steal  new-married  brides 
After  the  fall  of  twilight  on  May  Eve. 

(Maire  Bruin  goes  over  to  the  window  and  takes  flowers 
from  the  bowl  and  strews  them  outside  the  door.) 

Father  Hart 

You  do  well,  daughter,  because  God  permits 
Great  power  to  the  good  people  on  May  Eve. 

Shawn  Bruin 

They  can  work  all  their  will  with  primroses; 
Change  them  to  golden  money,  or  little  flames 
To  bum  up  those  who  do  them  any  wrong. 

Maire  Bruin  {in  a  dreamy  voice) 

I  had  no  sooner  flung  them  by  the  door 
Than  the  wind  cried  and  hurried  them  away; 
And  then  a  child  came  running  in  the  wind 
And  caught  them  in  her  hands  and  fondled  them: 
Her  dress  was  green:  her  hair  was  of  red  gold; 
Her  face  was  pale  as  water  before  dawn. 

Father  Hart 
Whose  child  can  this  be? 


216         THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESHIE 

Maurteex  Bruin 

No  one's  child  at  all. 
She  often  dreams  that  someone  has  gone  by 
When  there  was  nothing  but  a  puff  of  wind. 

MAmE  Bruin 
They  will  not  bring  good  luck  into  the  house. 
For  they  have  blo^ii  the  primroses  away; 
Yet  I  am  glad  that  I  was  courteous  to  them, 
For  are  not  they,  likewise,  children  of  God? 

Father  Hart 
Colleen,  they  are  the  children  of  the  fiend, 
And  they  have  power  until  the  end  of  Time, 
When  God  shall  fight  with  them  a  great  pitched  battle 
And  hack  them  into  pieces. 

Maire  Bruin 

He  will  smile. 
Father,  perhaps,  and  open  His  great  door. 
And  call  the  pretty  and  kind  into  His  house. 

Father  Hvrt 
Did  but  the  lawless  angels  see  that  door, 
They  would  fall,  slain  by  everlasting  peace; 
And  when  such  angels  knock  upon  our  doors 
Who  goes  with  them  must  drive  through  the  same  storm. 
(.1  knock  at  the  door.    Maihe  Buuin  o/)r».f  it  and  then 
goes  to  the  dresser  and  fills  a  -porringer  with  milk  and 
hands  it  through  the  door,  and  takes  it  back  empty  and 
closes  the  door.) 

M.URE  BUUI.N 

A  little  queer  old  woman  cloaked  in  green, 
Who  came  to  beg  a  porringer  of  milk. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE        217 

Bridget  Bruin 

The  good  people  go  asking  milk  and  fire 
Upon  May  Eve  —  Woe  on  the  house  that  gives, 
For  they  have  power  upon  it  for  a  year. 
I  knew  you  would  bring  evil  on  the  house. 

Maurteen  Bruin 
Who  was  she? 

Maire  Bruin 
Both  the  tongue  and  face  were  strange. 

Maurteen  Bruin 

Some  strangers  came  last  week  to  Clover  Hill; 
She  must  be  one  of  them. 

Bridget  Bruin 
I  am  afraid. 

Maurteen  Bruin 
The  priest  will  keep  all  harm  out  of  the  house. 

Father  Hart 

The  cross  will  keep  all  harm  out  of  the  house 
While  it  hangs  there. 

Maubteen  Bruin 

Come,  sit  beside  me,  colleen. 
And  put  away  your  dreams  of  discontent, 
For  I  would  have  you  light  up  my  last  days 
Like  the  good  glow  of  the  turf,  and  when  I  die 
I  will  make  you  the  wealthiest  hereabout : 
For  hid  away  where  nobody  can  find 
I  have  a  stocking  full  of  yellow  guineas. 


218        TlIE   L\ND  OF  HE^VRT'S  DESIRE 

Bridget  Bruin 
You  an*  the  fool  of  every  pretty  face, 
And  I  must  pinch  and  pare  that  my  son's  wife 
May  have  all  kinds  of  ribbons  for  her  head. 

Maurteen  Bruin 
Do  not  be  cross;  she  is  a  right  pood  girl! 
The  butter  is  by  your  elbow,  Father  Hart. 
My  colleen,  have  not  Fate  and  Time  and  Change 
Done  well  for  me  and  for  old  Bridget  there? 
We  ha\  e  a  hundred  acres  of  good  land. 
And  sit  beside  each  other  at  the  fire, 
The  wise  priest  of  our  parish  to  our  right. 
And  jou  and  our  dear  son  to  left  of  us. 
To  sit  beside  the  I)oard  and  drink  good  wine 
And  watch  the  turf  smoke  coiling  from  the  fire 
And  feel  content  and  wisdom  in  your  heart. 
This  is  the  be.st  of  life;  when  we  are  young 
We  long  to  tread  a  way  none  trod  before, 
But  find  the  excellent  old  way  through  love 
And  through  the  care  of  children  to  the  hour 
For  bidding  Fate  and  Time  and  Change  good-bye. 

(A  knock  at  the  door.  Maire  Bhiix  opcyis  it  and  then 
takes  a  .tod  of  turf  out  of  the  hearth  in  the  tonga  and 
goes  out  through  the  door.  Shawn  follows  her  and 
meets  her  coming  in.) 

Shawn  Bhiin 
What  is  it  draws  you  to  the  chill  o'  the  wood? 
There  is  a  light  among  the  stems  of  the  trees 
That  makes  one  shiv«>r. 

Maihe  Bruin 

A  little  (jiioer  old  man 
Made  mc  a  sign  to  show  he  wanted  fire 
To  light  his  i)ipe. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE         219 

Bridget  Bruin 

You  've  given  milk  and  fire. 
Upon  the  unluckiest  night  of  the  year,  and  brought, 
For  all  you  know,  evil  upon  the  house. 
Before  you  married  you  were  idle  and  fine. 
And  went  about  with  ribbons  on  your  head; 
And  now  —  no,  father,  I  will  speak  my  mind. 
She  is  not  a  fitting  wife  for  any  man  — 


Be  quiet,  mother 


Shawn  Bruin 

Maurteen  Bruin 

You  are  much  too  cross! 

Maire  Bruin 

What  do  I  care  if  I  have  given  this  house. 
Where  I  must  hear  all  day  a  bitter  tongue. 
Into  the  power  of  faeries ! 

Bridget  Bruin 

You  know  well 
How  calling  the  good  people  by  that  name 
Or  talking  of  them  over  much  at  all 
May  bring  all  kinds  of  evil  on  the  house. 

Maire  Bruin 

Come,  faeries,  take  me  out  of  this  dull  house ! 
Let  me  have  all  the  freedom  I  have  lost; 
Work  when  I  will  and  idle  when  I  will ! 
Faeries,  come  take  me  out  of  this  dull  world. 
For  I  would  ride  with  you  upon  the  wind, 
Run  on  the  top  of  the  dishevelled  tide. 
And  dance  upon  the  mountains  like  a  flame ! 


220        THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESmE 

Father  Hart 
You  cannot  know  the  meaning  of  your  words. 

Maire  Bruin 
Father,  I  am  right  weary  of  four  tongues: 
^.    A  tongue  that  is  too  crafty  and  too  wise, 
(f,     A  tongue  that  is  too  godly  and  too  grave, 
^    A  tongue  that  is  more  bitter  than  the  tide, 
^     And  a  kind  tongue  too  full  of  drowsy  love, 
Of  drowsy  love  and  my  captivity. 

(Shawn  Bruin  comes  over  to  her  and  leads  her  to  iiie 
settle.) 

Shawn  Bruin 

Do  not  blame  me:  I  often  lie  awake 

Thinking  that  all  things  trouble  your  bright  head  — 

How  beautiful  it  is  —  such  broad  pale  brows 

I'nder  a  cloudy  blossoming  of  hair! 

Sit  down  beside  me  here  —  these  are  too  old, 

And  have  forgotten  they  were  ever  young. 

Maire  Bruin 

Oh,  you  are  the  great  door-post  of  this  house, 
And  I,  the  red  nasturtiiiiii,  climbing  up. 

{She  takes  Shawn's  hand,  but  looks  shyly  at  the  priest 
and  lets  it  go.) 

Father  Hart 
Good  daughter,  take  his  hand  —  by  love  alone 
God  binds  us  to  Himself  and  to  the  hearth 
And  shuts  us  from  the  waste  bcyoiul  His  peace, 
From  maddening  freedom  ami  bewiidcriiig  light. 

Shawn  Bruin 

Would  that  the  world  were  mine  to  give  it  you 
With  every  quiet  hearth  and  barren  waste, 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE        221 

The  maddening  freedom  of  its  woods  and  tides, 
And  the  bewildering  light  upon  its  hills. 

Maire  Bruin 

Then  I  would  take  and  break  it  in  my  hands 
To  see  you  smile  watching  it  crumble  away. 

Shawn  Bruin 

Then  I  would  mould  a  world  of  fire  and  dew 
With  no  one  bitter,  grave,  or  over  wise. 
And  nothing  marred  or  old  to  do  you  wrong, 
And  crowd  the  enraptured  quiet  of  the  sky 
With  candles  biu-ning  to  your  lonely  face. 

Maire  Bruin 
Your  looks  are  all  the  candles  that  I  need. 

Shawn  Bruin 

Once  a  fly  dancing  in  a  beam  of  the  sun, 

Or  the  light  wind  blowing  out  of  the  dawn. 

Could  fill  your  heart  with  dreams  none  other  knew. 

But  now  the  indissoluble  sacrament 

Has  mixed  your  heart  that  was  most  proud  and  cold 

With  my  warm  heart  for  ever;  and  sun  and  moon 

Must  fade  and  heaven  be  rolled  up  like  a  scroll; 

But  your  white  spirit  still  walk  by  my  spirit. 

(A  Voice  sings  in  the  distance.) 

Maire  Bruin 

Did  you  hear  something  call?  Oh,  guard  me  close, 
Because  I  have  said  wicked  things  to-night; 
And  seen  a  pale-faced  child  with  red-gold  hair. 
And  longed  to  dance  upon  the  winds  with  her. 


222        THE  LAND  OF  HE.\RT'S  DESIRE 

A  \'t)icE  (close  to  the  door) 
The  wind  blows  out  of  tlie  gates  of  the  day, 
The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart 
And  tlic  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away, 
While  the  faeries  danee  in  a  place  apart. 
Shaking  their  milk-white  feet  in  a  ring, 
Tossing  their  milk-white  arms  in  the  air; 
For  they  hear  the  wind  laugh,  and  murmur  and  sing 
Of  a  land  where  even  the  old  are  fair, 
And  even  the  wise  are  merry  of  tongue; 
l^nt  I  heard  a  reed  of  Coolaney  say, 
"  ^^  hen  the  wind  has  laughed  and  murmured  and  sung. 
The  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away!" 

Madrteen  Bruin 
I  am  right  happy,  and  would  make  all  else 
Be  happy  too.   I  hoar  a  child  outside, 
And  will  go  bring  her  in  out  of  the  cold. 

{lie  opens  the  door.   A  Child  dressed  in  pale  green  and 
xcith  red-gold  hair  comes  into  the  house.) 

The  Child 
I  tire  of  winds  and  waters  and  pale  lights! 

IVIaurteen  Bruin 
Vou  are  most  welcome.   It  is  cold  out  there; 
Who  would  think  to  face  such  cold  on  a  May  Eve? 

The  Chili) 
And  when  I  tire  of  this  warm  little  house 
There  is  one  here  who  must  away,  away. 
To  whore  the  woods,  tiie  stars,  and  the  white  streams 
Are  holding  a  continual  festival. 

Maurteen  Bruin 
Oh,  listen  to  her  dreamy  and  strange  talk. 
Come  to  the  fire. 


! 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE         223 

The  Child 
I  will  sit  upon  your  knee, 
For  I  have  run  from  where  the  winds  are  born, 
And  long  to  rest  my  feet  a  httle  while. 

(She  sits  upon  his  knee.) 

Bridget  Bruin 
How  pretty  you  are ! 

Maurteen  Bruin 

Yom*  hair  is  wet  with  dew! 

Bridget  Bruin 

I  will  warm  your  chilly  feet. 

{She  takes  the  child's  feet  in  her  hands.) 

Maurteen  Bruin 

You  must  have  come 
A  long,  long  way,  for  I  have  never  seen 
Your  pretty  face,  and  must  be  tired  and  hungry; 
Here  is  some  bread  and  wine. 

The  Child 

The  wine  is  bitter. 
Old  mother,  have  you  no  sweet  food  for  me? 

Bridget  Bruin 
I  have  some  honey ! 

(She  goes  into  the  next  room.) 

Maurteen  Bruin 

You  are  a  dear  child; 
The  mother  was  quite  cross  before  you  came, 

(Bridget  returns  with  the  honey,  and  goes  to  the  dresser 
and  fills  a  porringer  with  milk.) 


224        THE  LAND  OF  HE.\RT'S  DESIRE 

Bridget  Bruin 

She  is  the  child  of  gentle  people;  look 

At  her  white  hands  and  at  her  pretty  dress. 

I  've  brought  you  some  new  milk,  but  wait  awhile, 

And  I  will  put  it  by  the  fire  to  warm, 

For  things  well  fitted  for  poor  folk  like  us 

Would  never  please  a  high-born  child  like  you. 

The  Child 
Old  mother,  my  old  mother,  the  green  dawn 
Brightens  above  while  you  blow  up  the  fire; 
And  evening  finds  you  spreading  the  white  cloth. 
The  young  may  lie  in  bed  and  dream  and  hope. 
But  you  work  on  because  your  heart  is  old. 

Bridget  Bruin 
The  young  are  idle. 

The  Child 

Old  father,  you  are  wise 
And  all  the  years  have  gathered  in  your  heart 
To  whisper  of  the  wonders  that  are  gone. 
The  young  must  sigh  through  many  a  dream  and  hope, 
But  you  are  wise  because  your  heart  is  old. 

I\L\LTiTEEN  Bruin 

Oh,  who  would  think  to  find  so  young  a  child 
Loving  old  age  and  wisdom? 

(Bridget  gives  her  more  bread  and  honey.) 

The  Child 

No  more,  mother. 

^LiURTEEN  Bruin 

What  a  small  bite!  The  milk  is  ready  now; 
What  a  small  sip! 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE        225 

The  Child 
Put  on  my  shoes,  old  mother, 
For  I  would  like  to  dance  now  I  have  eaten. 
The  reeds  are  dancing  by  Coolaney  lake. 
And  I  would  like  to  dance  until  the  reeds 
And  the  white  waves  have  danced  themselves  to  sleep. 

t-^  Bridget 
{Having  put  on  her  shoes,  she  gets  off  the  old  man's  Icnees 
and  is  about  to  dance,  but  suddenly  sees  the  crucifix 
and  shrieks  and  covers  her  eyes.) 
What  is  that  ugly  thing  on  the  black  cross? 

Father  Hart 
You  cannot  know  how  naughty  your  words  are ! 
That  is  our  Blessed  Lord! 

The  Child 

Hide  it  away! 

Bridget  Bruin 
I  have  begun  to  be  afraid,  again ! 

The  Child 
Hide  it  away! 

Maurteen  Bruin 
That  would  be  wickedness! 

Bridget  Bruin 
That  would  be  sacrilege! 

The  Child 

The  tortured  thing! 
Hide  it  away! 

Maurteen  Bruin 

Her  parents  are  to  blame. 

16 


226        THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Father  Hart 

That  is  the  image  of  the  Son  of  God. 

(The  Child  puts  her  arm  around  his  neck  and  kisses 
him.) 

The  Child 

Hide  it  away!  Hide  it  away! 

Maurteen  Bruin 
No!  no! 

Father  Hart 
Because  you  are  so  young  and  little  a  child 
I  will  go  take  it  down. 

The  Child 
Hide  it  away, 
And  cover  it  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind. 

(Father  Hart  takes  it  down  and  carrries  it  towards  the 
inner  room.) 

Father  Hart 
Since  you  have  come  into  this  barony 
I  will  instruct  you  in  our  blessed  faith: 
Being  a  clever  child  you  will  soon  learn. 

{To  the  others) 
We  must  be  tender  with  all  budding  things. 
Our  Maker  let  no  thought  of  Calvary 
Trouble  the  morning  stars  in  their  first  song. 

(Puts  the  crucifix  in  the  inner  room.) 

The  Child 
Here  is  level  ground  for  dancing.    I  will  dance. 
The  wind  is  blowing  on  the  waving  reeds, 
The  wind  is  blowing  on  the  heart  of  man. 

{She  dances,  swaijing  about  like  the  reeds.) 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESmE        227 

Maire  (to  Shawn  Bruin)  i^iii 

Just  now  when  she  came  near  I  thought  I  heard 
Other  small  steps  beating  upon  the  floor. 
And  a  faint  music  blowing  in  the  wind, 
Invisible  pipes  giving  her  feet  the  time. 

Shawn  Bruin 
I  heard  no  step  but  hers. 

Maire  Bruin 

Look  to  the  bolt! 
Because  the  unholy  powers  are  abroad. 

Maurteen  Bruin  {to  The  Child) 

Come  over  here,  and  if  you  promise  me 
Not  to  talk  wickedly  of  holy  things 
I  will  give  you  something. 

The  Child 

Bring  it  me,  old  father! 
(Maurteen  Bruin  goes  into  the  next  room.) 

Father  Hart 

I  will  have  queen  cakes  when  you  come  to  me ! 

(Maurteen  Bruin  returns  and  lays  a  piece  of  money  on 
the  table.  The  Child  makes  a  gesture  of  refusal.) 

Maurteen  Bruin 
It  will  buy  lots  of  toys;  see  how  it  glitters ! 

The  Child 
Come,  tell  me,  do  you  love  me? 

Maurteen  Bruin 

I  love  you! 


228        THE  L.V\D  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

The  Child 
Ah !  but  you  love  this  fireside ! 

Father  Hart 

I  love  you. 
WTien  the  Almighty  puts  so  great  a  share 
Of  His  o\N'n  ageless  youth  into  a  creature, 
To  look  is  but  to  love. 

The  Child 
But  you  love  Him  above. 

Bridget  BRL^N 

She  is  blaspheming. 

The  Child  {to  Maire) 
And  do  you  love  me? 

Maire  Bruin 

I  —  I  do  not  know. 

The  Child 

You  love  that  great  tall  fellow  over  there: 
Yet  I  could  make  you  ride  upon  the  winds, 
Run  on  the  top  of  the  dishevelled  tide. 
And  dance  upon  the  mountains  like  a  flame  I 

Maire  Bruin 

Queen  of  the  Angels  and  kind  Saints,  defend  us! 
Some  dreadful  fate  has  Ldlcn:  a  while  ago 
The  wind  cried  out  and  took  the  primroses, 
And  she  ran  by  me  laughing  in  the  wind. 
And  I  gave  milk  and  fire,  and  she  came  in 
And  made  you  hide  the  blessed  crucifix. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE         229 

Father  Hart 

You  fear  because  of  her  wild,  pretty  prattle; 
She  knows  no  better. 

/  (ro  The  Child) 

Child,  how  old  are  you? 

The  Child 

When  winter  sleep  is  abroad  my  hair  grows  thin. 
My  feet  unsteady.  When  the  leaves  awaken 
My  mother  carries  me  in  her  golden  arms. 
I  will  soon  put  on  my  womanhood  and  marry 
The  spirits  of  wood  and  water,  but  who  can  tell 
When  I  was  born  for  the  first  time?  I  think 
I  am  much  older  than  the  eagle  cock 
That  blinks  and  blinks  on  Ballygawley  Hill, 
And  he  is  the  oldest  thing  under  the  moon. 

Father  Hart 
She  is  of  the  faery  people. 

The  Child 

I  am  Brig's  daughter. 
I  sent  my  messengers  for  milk  and  fire, 
And  then  I  heard  one  call  to  me  and  came. 

{They  all  except  Shawn  and  Maire  Bruin  gather  he- 
hind  the  priest  for  protection.) 

Shawn  {rising) 

Though  you  have  made  all  these  obedient. 

You  have  not  charmed  my  sight,  and  won  from  me 

A  wish  or  gift  to  make  you  powerful; 

I  '11  turn  you  from  the  house. 


230        THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Father  Hart 

Xo,  I  will  face  her. 

The  Child 

Because  you  took  away  the  crucifix 
I  am  so  mighty  that  there's  none  can  pass 
Unless  I  will  it,  where  ray  feet  have  danced 
Or  where  I  've  twirled  my  finger  tops. 

(Sha^-n  tries  to  approach  her  and  cannot.) 

Maurteex 

Look,  look ! 
There  something  stoj)s  liim  —  look  how  he  moves  his  hands 
As  though  he  rubbetl  them  on  a  wall  of  glass. 

Father  ILutT 

I  will  confront  this  mighty  spirit  alone. 

{They  cling  to  him  and  hold  him  back.) 

The  Child  {while  slie  strews  primroses) 

No  one  whose  heart  is  heax-y  with  human  tears 
Can  cross  these  little  cressets  of  the  wood. 

Father  Hart 

Be  not  afraid,  the  Father  is  with  us. 
And  all  the  nine  angelic  hierarchies. 
The  Holy  Martyrs  and  the  Innocents, 
The  adoring  Magi  in  their  coats  of  mail. 
And  He  who  died  and  rose  on  the  third  day. 
And  Mary  with  her  seven  times  wounded  heart. 

(Thk  Child  ceases  streiring  the  primroses,  and  kneels 
upon  the  settle  beside  Maiki:  and  puts  her  arms  about 
fier  neck.) 
Cry,  daughter,  to  the  Angels  and  the  Saints. 


1 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESHIE        231 

The  Child 

You  shall  go  with  me,  newly  married  bride, 
And  gaze  upon  a  merrier  multitude; 
White-armed  Nuala,  ^ngus  of  the  birds, 
Feacra  of  the  hurtling  foam,  and  him 
Who  is  the  ruler  of  the  Western  Host, 
Finvarra,  and  their  Land  of  Heart's  Desire, 
Where  beauty  has  no  ebb,  decay  no  flood. 
But  joy  is  wisdom.  Time  an  endless  song. 
I  kiss  you  and  the  world  begins  to  fade. 

Father  Hart 
Daughter,  I  call  you  unto  home  and  love ! 

The  Child 

Stay,  and  come  vnth  me,  newly  married  bride. 
For,  if  you  hear  him,  you  grow  like  the  rest : 
Bear  children,  cook,  be  mindful  of  the  churn. 
And  wrangle  over  butter,  fowl,  and  eggs, 
And  sit  at  last  there,  old  and  bitter  of  tongue, 
Watching  the  white  stars  war  upon  your  hopes. 

Shawn 

Awake  out  of  that  trance,  and  cover  up 
Your  eyes  and  ears. 

Father  Hart 

She  must  both  look  and  listen, 
For  only  the  soul's  choice  can  save  her  now. 
Daughter,  I  point  you  out  the  way  to  heaven. 

The  Child 

But  I  can  lead  you,  newly  married  bride, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  crafty  and  wise. 


232        THE  LAND  OF  IIE.^RT'S  DESIRE 

Where  nobody  gets  old  and  godly  and  grave, 
Where  nobody  gets  old  and  bitter  of  tongue. 
And  where  kind  tongues  bring  no  captivity; 
For  we  are  only  true  to  the  far  lights 
We  follow  singing,  over  valley  and  hill. 

Father  Hart 
By  the  dear  name  of  the  one  crucified, 
I  bid  you,  Maire  Bruin,  come  to  me. 

The  Child 
I  keep  you  in  the  name  of  your  own  heart ! 

{She  leaves  the  settle,  and  stooping  takes  vp  a  mass  of 
primroses  and  kisses  them.) 
We  have  great  power  to-night,  dear  golden  folk, 
For  he  took  down  and  hid  the  crucifix. 
And  my  invisible  brethren  fill  the  house; 
I  hear  their  footsteps  going  up  and  down. 
Oh,  they  shall  soon  rule  all  the  hearts  of  men 
And  own  all  lands;  last  night  they  merrily  danced 
About  his  chapel  belfry!  {To  Maire)  Come  away, 
I  hear  my  brethren  bidding  us  away! 

Father  Hart 
I  will  go  fetch  the  crucifix  again. 

{Tliey  hang  about  him  in  terror  and  prevent  him  J  ram 
moving.) 

Bridgkt  Bruin 
The  enchanted  flowers  will  kill  us  if  you  go. 

Maurteen  Bruin 
They  turn  the  flowers  to  little  twisted  flames. 

Shawn  Bruin 
The  little  twisted  flames  burn  up  the  heart. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESHIE         233 

The  Child 

I  hear  them  crying,  "Newly  married  bride, 
Come  to  the  woods  and  waters  and  pale  lights." 

Maibe  Bruin 
I  will  go  with  you. 

Father  Hart 
She  is  lost,  alas ! 

The  Child  {standing  by  the  door) 
But  clinging  mortal  hope  must  fall  from  you: 
For  we  who  ride  the  winds,  run  on  the  waves 
And  dance  upon  the  mountains,  are  more  light 
Than  dewdrops  on  the  banners  of  the  dawn. 

Maire  Bruin 
Oh,  take  me  with  you. 

(Shawn  Bruin  goes  over  to  her.) 

Shawn  Bruin 
Beloved,  do  not  leave  me! 
Remember  when  I  met  you  by  the  well 
And  took  your  hand  in  mine  and  spoke  of  love. 

Maire  Bruin 
Dear  face !  Dear  voice ! 

The  Child 
Come,  newly  married  bride ! 

Maire  Bruin 

I  always  loved  her  world  —  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 

(Sinks  into  his  arms.) 

The  Child  (from  the  door) 
White  bird,  white  bird,  come  with  me,  little  bird. 


234         THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE 

Maire  Bruin 
She  calls  to  me! 

The  Child 
Come  with  me,  little  bird ! 

Maire  Bruin 
I  can  hear  songs  and  dancing! 

Shawn  Bron 

Stay  with  me! 

Maire  Bruin 
I  think  that  I  would  stay  —  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 

The  Child 
Come,  little  bird  with  crest  of  gold ! 

Maire  Bruin  {very  softly) 

And  yet  — 
The  Child 
Come,  little  bird  with  silver  feet ! 

(Maire  dies,  and  the  child  goes.) 

Shawn  Bruin 

She  is  dead! 

Bridget  Bruin 
Come  from  that  image:  body  and  soul  arc  gone. 
You  have  thrown  your  arms  al)out  a  drift  of  leaves 
Or  bole  of  an  ash  tree  changed  into  her  image. 

Father  Hart 
Thus  do  the  spirits  of  evil  snatch  their  prey 
Almost  out  of  the  very  hand  of  God; 
And  day  by  day  their  power  is  more  and  more. 
And  men  and  women  leave  old  paths,  for  pride 
Comes  knocking  with  thin  knuckles  on  the  heart. 


THE  LAND  OF  HEART'S  DESIRE         235 

A  Voice  (singing  outside) 

The  wind  blows  out  of  the  gates  of  the  day. 
The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart. 
And  the  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away 
While  the  faeries  dance  in  a  place  apart. 
Shaking  their  milk-white  feet  in  a  ring, 
Tossing  their  milk-white  arms  in  the  air; 
For  they  hear  the  wind  laugh  and  murmur  and  sing 
Of  a  land  where  even  the  old  are  fair. 
And  even  the  wise  are  merry  of  tongue; 
But  I  heard  a  reed  of  Coolaney  say, 
"  When  the  wind  has  laughed  and  murmured  and  sung. 
The  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away." 

{The  song  is  taken  up  hy  many  voices,  who  sing  loudly, 
as  if  in  triumph.  Some  of  the  voices  seem  to  come  from 
within  the  house.) 

[  Curtain  ] 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEXD' 

GORDON  BOTTOMLEY 
CHARACTERS 

GUNNAR  HaMUNDSSON 

Hallgerd  Longcoat,  his  wife 

Raxnveig,  bis  mother 

Oddny,  Astrid,  and  Steinvor,  Hallgerd's  housewomen 

Ormild,  a  woman  thrall 

BiARTEY,  JoFRiD,  and  GuDFiNN,  beggar-women 

GizuR  THE  White,  Mord  Valgardsson,  Thorgrlm  the 
Easterling,  Tiiorbrand  TiiORLEiKsso>f  and  As- 
BRAND  his  brother,  Aunltnd,  Tiiorgeir,  and  IIroald, 
riders 

Many  other  Riders  and  Voices  of  Riders 

TIME:  Iceland,  a.d.  990 

S('E\E:  The  hall  o/Gunnar's  hout>e  at  Lithcnd  in  South 
Iceland.  The  portion  shewn  is  set  on  the  stage  diagonally, 
so  that  to  the  right  otie  end  is  seen,  ichile  from  the  rear 
corner  ufihis,  one  side  runs  down  almost  to  the  left  front. 

The  side  wall  is  low  and  wainscoted  with  carved  panel- 
ling on  irhich  hang  vrapons,  shields,  and  coats  of  mail. 
In  one  place  a  panel  slid  aside  shews  a  shut  bed. 

In  front  of  the  panelling  are  two  long  benefits  with  a 
carved  high-scat  betiveen  them.  Across  the  etui  of  the  hall 

'  This  play  is  reprinted  by  |)ermis<5ion  of  nnd  by  nrriuigemcnt  with  Con- 
stable and  Company,  Limited,  London. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  237 

are  similar  'panellings  and  the  seats,  with  corresponding 
tables,  of  the  women's  dais;  behind  these  and  in  the  gable 
wall  is  a  high  narrow  door  with  a  rounded  top. 

A  timber  roof  slopes  down  to  the  side  wall  and  is  up- 
held by  cross-beams  and  two  rows  of  tall  pillars  which 
make  a  rather  narrow  nave  of  the  centre  of  the  hall.  One 
of  these  rows  runs  parallel  to  the  side  wall,  the  pair  of 
pillars  before  the  high-seat  being  carved  and  ended  unth 
images;  of  the  other  row  only  two  pillars  are  visible  at  the 
extreme  right. 

Within  this  nave  is  the  space  for  the  hearths;  but  the 
only  hearth  visible  is  the  one  near  the  women's  dais.  In 
the  roof  above  it  there  is  a  louvre:  the  fire  glows  and  no 
smoke  rises.  The  hall  is  lit  everywhere  by  the  firelight. 

The  rafters  over  the  women's  dais  carry  a  floor  at  the 
level  of  the  side  walls,  forming  an  open  loft  which  is 
reached  by  a  wide  ladder  fixed  against  the  wall:  a  bed  is 
seen  in  this  loft.  Low  in  the  roof  at  intervals  are  shuttered 
casements,  one  being  above  the  loft:  all  the  shutters  are 
closed.  Near  the  fire  a  large  shaggy  hound  is  sleeping; 
and  Ormild,  in  the  undyed  woollen  dress  of  a  thrally  is 
combing  wool 

Oddny  stands  spinning  at  the  side;  near  her  Astrid 
and  Steinvor  sit  stitching  a  robe  which  hangs  between 
them. 

Astrid 

Night  is  a  winter  long:  and  evening  falls. 

Night,  night  and  winter  and  the  heavy  snow 

Burden  our  eyes,  intrude  upon  our  dreams, 

And  make  of  loneliness  an  earthly  place. 

Ormild 
This  bragging  land  of  freedom  that  enthralls  me 
Is  still  the  fastness  of  a  secret  king 


238  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEXD 

WTio  treads  the  dark  like  snow,  of  old  king  Sleep. 
He  works  with  night,  he  has  stolen  death's  tool  frost 
That  makes  the  breaking  wave  forget  to  fall. 

ASTRID 

Best  mind  thy  comb-pot  and  forget  our  king 
Before  the  Longcoat  helps  at  thy  awaking.  .  .  . 
I  like  not  this  forsaken  quiet  house. 
The  housemen  out  at  harvest  in  the  Isles 
Never  return.  Perhaps  they  went  but  now, 
Yet  I  am  sore  with  fearing  and  expecting 
Becau.se  they  do  not  come.  They  will  not  come. 
I  like  not  this  forsaken  quiet  house, 
This  late  last  harvest,  and  night  creeping  in. 

Oddny 

I  like  not  dwelling  in  an  outlaw's  house. 
Snow  shall  be  heavier  upon  some  eyes 
Than  you  can  tell  of  —  ay,  and  unseen  earth 
Shall  keep  that  snow  from  filling  those  poor  eyes. 
This  void  house  is  more  void  by  brooding  things 
That  do  not  happen,  than  by  absent  men. 
Sometimes  when  I  awaken  in  the  night 
My  throbbing  ears  are  mocking  me  with  rumours 
Of  crackling  beams,  beams  falling,  and  loud  flames. 

AsTRlD  (pointing  to  the  iirapons  by  the  high-seat) 

The  bill  that  Gunnar  won  in  a  far  sea-fight 
Sings  inwardly  when  battle  impends;  as  a  harp 
Replies  to  the  wind,  thus  answers  it  to  fierceness, 
So  tense  its  nature  is  and  the  spell  of  its  welding; 
Then  trust  ye  well  that  while  the  bill  is  silent 
No  danger  thickens,  for  Gunnar  dies  not  singly. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  239 

Steinvor 
But  women  are  let  forth  free  when  men  go  burning? 

Oddny 

Fire  is  a  hurrying  thing,  and  fire  by  night 
Can  see  its  way  better  than  men  see  theirs. 

ASTRID 

The  land  will  not  be  nobler  or  more  holpen 
If  Gunnar  burns  and  we  go  forth  unsinged. 
Why  will  he  break  the  atonement  that  was  set? 
That  wise  old  Njal  who  has  the  second  sight 
Foretold  his  death  if  he  should  slay  twice  over 
In  the  same  kin,  or  break  the  atonement  set : 
Yet  has  he  done  these  things  and  will  not  care. 
Kolskegg,  who  kept  his  back  in  famous  fights. 
Sailed  long  ago  and  far  away  from  us 
Because  that  doom  is  on  him  for  the  slayings; 
Yet  Gunnar  bides  although  that  doom  is  on  him 
And  he  is  outlawed  by  defiance  of  doom. 

Steinvor 

Gunnar  has  seen  his  death :  he  is  spoken  for. 

He  would  not  sail  because,  when  he  rode  down 

Unto  the  ship,  his  horse  stumbled  and  threw  him, 

His  face  toward  the  Lithe  and  his  own  fields. 

Olaf  the  Peacock  bade  him  be  with  him 

In  his  new  mighty  house  so  carven  and  bright. 

And  leave  this  house  to  Rannveig  and  his  sons: 

He  said  that  would  be  well,  yet  never  goes. 

Is  he  not  thinking  death  would  ride  with  him? 

Did  not  Njal  offer  to  send  his  sons, 

Skarphedin  ugly  and  brave  and  Hauskuld  with  him. 


240  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND 

To  hold  this  house  with  Gunnar,  who  refused  them, 
Saying  he  would  not  lead  young  men  to  death? 
I  tell  you  Gunnar  is  done.  .  .  ,  His  fetch  is  out. 

Oddny 

Nay,  he 's  been  topmost  in  so  many  fights 
That  he  believes  he  shall  fight  on  untouched. 

Steinvor 

He  rides  to  motes  and  Things  before  his  foes. 

He  has  sent  his  sons  harvesting  in  the  Isles. 

He  takes  deliberate  heed  of  death  —  to  meet  it, 

Like  those  whom  Odin  needs.   He  is  fey,  I  tell  you  — 

And  if  we  are  past  the  foolish  ardour  of  girls 

For  heroisms  and  profitless  loftiness 

We  shall  get  gone  when  bedtime  clears  the  house. 

'T  is  much  to  have  to  be  a  hero's  wife. 

And  I  shall  wonder  if  Hallgerd  cares  about  it : 

Yet  she  may  kindle  to  it  ere  my  heart  quickens. 

I  tell  you,  women,  we  have  no  duty  here: 

Let  us  get  gone  to-night  while  there  is  time. 

And  find  new  harbouring  ere  the  laggard  da\\Ti, 

For  death  is  making  narrowing  passages 

About  this  hushed  and  terrifying  house. 

(RANm'EiG,  an  old  v^impled  woman ,  enters  as  if  from  a 
door  al  the  unseen  end  of  the  hall.) 

ASTRID 

He  is  so  great  and  manly,  our  master  Gunnar, 
There  are  not  many  ready  to  meet  his  weapons: 
And  so  there  may  not  be  much  need  of  weapons. 
He  is  so  noble  and  clear,  so  swift  and  tender. 
So  much  of  Iceland's  fame  iu  foreigii  places. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  241 

That  too  many  love  him,  too  many  honour  him 
To  let  him  die,  lest  the  most  gleaming  glory 
Of  our  grey  country  should  be  there  put  out. 

Rannveig 

Girl,  girl,  my  son  has  many  enemies 

Who  will  not  lose  the  joy  of  hurting  him. 

This  little  land  is  no  more  than  a  lair 

That  holds  too  many  fiercenesses  too  straitly. 

And  no  man  will  refuse  the  rapture  of  killing 

When  outlawry  has  made  it  cheap  and  righteous. 

So  long  as  anyone  perceives  he  knows 

A  bare  place  for  a  weapon  on  my  son 

His  hand  shall  twitch  to  fit  a  weapon  in. 

Indeed  he  shall  lose  nothing  but  his  life 

Because  a  woman  is  made  so  evil  fair. 

Wasteful  and  white  and  proud  in  harmful  acts. 

I  lose  two  sons  when  Gunnar's  eyes  are  still, 

For  then  will  Kolskegg  never  more  turn  home.  .  .  . 

If  Gunnar  would  but  sail,  three  years  would  pass; 

Only  three  years  of  banishment  said  the  doom  — 

So  few,  so  few,  for  I  can  last  ten  years 

With  this  unshrunken  body  and  steady  heart. 

{To  Ormild) 
Have  I  sat  down  in  comfort  by  the  fire 
And  waited  to  be  told  the  thing  I  knew? 
Have  any  men  come  home  to  the  young  women. 
Thinking  old  women  do  not  need  to  hear. 
That  you  can  play  at  being  a  bower-maid 
In  a  long  gown  although  no  beasts  are  foddered? 
Up,  lass,  and  get  thy  coats  about  thy  knees. 
For  we  must  cleanse  the  byre  and  heap  the  midden 
Before  the  master  knows  —  or  he  will  go. 
And  there  is  peril  for  him  in  every  darkness. 

17 


242  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND 

Ormild  (tucking  up  her  skirts) 
Then  are  we  out  of  peril  in  the  darkness? 
We  should  do  better  to  nail  up  the  doors 
Each  night  and  all  night  long  and  sleep  through  it, 
Giving  the  cattle  meat  and  straw  by  day. 

Oddny 

Ay,  and  the  hungry  cattle  should  sing  us  to  sleep. 

(The  others  laugh.  Ormild  goes  out  to  the  left;  Rann- 
VEIQ  is  following  her,  but  pauses  at  the  sound  of  a 
voice.) 

Hallgerd  (beyond  the  door  of  the  women's  dais) 

Dead  men  have  told  me  I  was  better  than  fair, 
And  for  my  face  welcomed  the  danger  of  me: 
Then  am  I  spent? 

(She  enters  angrily,  looking  backward  through  the  door- 
way.) 

Must  I  shut  fust  my  doors 
And  hide  myself?  Must  I  wear  up  the  rags 
Of  mortal  perished  beauty  and  be  old? 
Or  is  there  power  left  upon  my  mouth 
Like  colour,  and  lilting  of  ruin  in  my  eyes? 
Am  I  still  rare  enough  to  be  your  mate? 
Then  why  must  I  shame  at  feasts  and  bear  myself 
In  shy  ungainly  ways,  made  flushed  and  conscious 
By  squat  numb  gestures  of  my  shapeless  head  — 
Ay,  and  its  wagging  shadow  —  clouted  up, 
Twice  tangled  with  a  bundle  of  hot  hair. 
Like  a  thick  cot-quean's  in  the  settling  time? 
There  are  few  women  in  the  Quarter  now 
Who  do  not  wear  a  shapely  fine- webbed  coif 
Stitched  by  dark  Irisii  girls  in  Athcliath 
With  golden  flies  and  i)carls  and  glinting  things: 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  243 

Even  my  daughter  lets  her  big  locks  show, 

Show  and  half  show,  from  a  hood  gentle  and  close 

That  spans  her  little  head  like  her  husband's  hand. 

GuNNAK  {entering  by  the  same  door) 

I  like  you  when  you  bear  your  head  so  high; 

Lift  but  your  heart  as  high,  you  could  get  crowned 

And  rule  a  kingdom  of  impossible  things. 

You  would  have  moon  and  sun  to  shine  together. 

Snow-flakes  to  knit  for  apples  on  bare  boughs. 

Yea,  love  to  thrive  upon  the  terms  of  hate. 

If  I  had  fared  abroad  I  should  have  found 

In  many  countries  many  marvels  for  you  — 

Though  not  more  comeliness  in  peopled  Romeborg 

And  not  more  haughtiness  in  Mickligarth 

Nor  craftiness  in  all  the  isles  of  the  world, 

And  only  golden  coifs  in  Athchath : 

Yet  you  were  ardent  that  I  should  not  sail, 

And  when  I  could  not  sail  you  laughed  out  loud 

And  kissed  me  home.  .  .  . 

Hallgerd  {who  has  been  biting  her  nails) 

And  then  .  .  .  and  doubtless  .  .  .and  strangely  .  .  . 
And  not  more  thriftiness  in  BergthorsknoU 
Where  Njal  saves  old  soft  sackcloth  for  his  wife. 
Oh,  I  must  sit  with  peasants  and  aged  women. 
And  keep  my  head  wrapped  modestly  and  seemly. 

{She  turns  to  Rannveig.) 
I  must  be  hmnble  —  as  one  who  lives  on  others. 

{She  snatches  off  her  toimple,  slipping  her  gold  circlet  as 
she  does  so,  and  loosens  her  hair.) 
Unless  I  may  be  hooded  delicately 
And  use  the  adornment  noble  women  use 
I'll  mock  you  with  my  flown  young  widowhood. 


244  THE  RIDING  TO  LITIIEXD 

Letting  my  hair  go  loose  past  either  cheek 
In  two  bright  clouds  and  drop  beyond  my  bosom. 
Turning  the  waving  ends  untlcr  my  girdle 
As  young  glad  widows  do,  and  as  I  did 
Ere  ever  you  saw  me  —  ay,  and  when  you  found  me 
And  met  me  as  a  king  meets  a  queen 
In  the  undying  light  of  a  summer  night 
With  burning  robes  and  glances  —  stirring  the  heart  with 
scarlet. 

(She  tucks  the  long  ends  of  her  hair  under  her  girdle.) 

Rannveig 

You  have  cast  the  head-ring  of  the  nobly  nurtured. 

Being  eager  for  a  bold  uncovered  head. 

You  are  conversant  with  a  widow's  fancies.  .  .  . 

Ay,  you  are  ready  with  your  widowhooil: 

Two  men  have  had  you,  chilled  their  bosoms  with  you, 

And  trusted  that  they  held  a  precious  thing  — 

Yet  your  mean  passionate  wastefulness  i)ouro(l  out 

Their  lives  for  joy  of  seeing  something  done  w  ith. 

Cannot  you  wait  this  time?   'T  will  not  be  long. 

Hallgerd 

I  am  a  hazardous  desirable  thing, 

A  warm  unsounded  peril,  a  iiashing  mischief, 

A  divine  malice,  a  disquieting  voice: 

Thus  I  was  shaj^en,  and  it  is  my  pride 

To  nourish  all  the  fires  that  mingled  me. 

I  am  not  long  moved,  I  do  not  mar  my  face. 

Though  men  have  sunk  in  me  as  in  a  quicksand. 

Well,  death  is  terrible.   Was  I  not  wortii  it? 

Does  not  the  light  change  on  me  as  I  breathe? 

Could  I  not  take  the  hearts  of  generations, 

Walking  among  their  dreams?  Oh,  I  have  might. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  245 

Although  it  drives  me  too  and  is  not  my  own  deed  .  .  . 

And  Gunnar  is  great,  or  he  had  died  long  since. 

It  is  my  joy  that  Gunnar  stays  with  me: 

Indeed  the  offence  is  theirs  who  hunted  him. 

His  banishment  is  not  just;  his  wrongs  increase. 

His  honour  and  his  following  shall  increase 

If  he  is  steadfast  for  his  blamelessness. 

Rannveig 

Law  is  not  justice,  but  the  sacrifice 

Of  singular  virtues  to  the  dull  world's  ease  of  mind; 

It  measures  men  by  the  most  vicious  men; 

It  is  a  bargaining  with  vanities. 

Lest  too  much  right  should  make  men  hate  each  other 

And  hasten  the  last  battle  of  all  the  nations. 

Gunnar  should  have  kept  the  atonement  set. 

For  then  those  men  would  turn  to  other  quarrels. 

Gunnar 

I  know  not  why  it  is  I  must  be  fighting. 

For  ever  fighting,  when  the  slaying  of  men 

Is  a  more  weary  and  aimless  thing  to  me 

Than  most  men  think  it  .  .  .  and  most  women  too. 

There  is  a  woman  here  who  grieves  she  loves  me. 

And  she  too  must  be  fighting  me  for  ever 

With  her  dim  ravenous  unsated  mind.  .  .  . 

Ay,  Hallgerd,  there 's  that  in  her  which  desires 

Men  to  fight  on  for  ever  because  she  lives: 

When  she  took  form  she  did  it  like  a  hunger 

To  nibble  earth's  lip  away  until  the  sea 

Poured  down  the  darkness.  Why  then  should  I  sail 

Upon  a  voyage  that  can  end  but  here? 

She  means  that  I  shall  fight  until  I  die: 


24G  TlIE   RIDING   TO  LITHEXD 

'NMiy  must  she  be  put  off  by  whittled  years, 

When  none  can  die  until  his  time  has  come? 

{He  turns  to  the  hound  by  the  fire.) 

Samm,  drowsy  friend,  dost  scent  a  prey  in  dreams? 

Shake  off  thy  shag  of  sleep  and  get  to  thy  watch : 

'T  is  time  to  be  our  eyes  till  the  next  light. 

Out,  out  to  the  yard,  good  Samm. 

{He  goes  to  the  left,  followed  by  the  hound.  In  the  mean- 
time Hallgerd  has  seated  herself  in  the  high-seat  near 
the  seuHng  women,  turning  herself  away  and  tugging  at 
a  strand  of  her  hair,  the  end  of  which  she  bites.) 

Rannveig  {intercepting  him) 

Nay,  let  me  take  him. 
It  is  not  safe  —  there  may  be  men  who  hide.  .  .  . 
Hallgerd,  look  up;  call  Gunnar  to  you  there: 

(Hallgerd  is  motionless.) 
Lad,  she  beckons.  I  say  you  shall  not  come. 

GcjNN.VR  {laughing) 
Fierce  woman,  teach  me  to  be  brave  in  age. 
And  let  us  see  if  it  is  safe  for  you. 

{Leads  R.\N"NVEio  out,  his  hand  on  her  shoulder;  the 
hound  goes  irith  them.) 

Steixvor 
Mistress,  my  heart  is  big  with  mutinies 
For  your  proud  sake:  docs  not  your  heart  mount  up? 
He  is  an  outlaw  now  and  could  not  hold  you 
If  you  should  choose  to  leave  him.   Is  it  not  law? 
Is  it  not  law  that  you  could  loose  this  marriage  — 
Nay,  that  he  loosed  it  shamefully  years  ago 
By  a  hard  blow  that  bruised  your  innocent  cheek. 
Dishonouring  you  to  lesser  women  and  chiefs? 
See,  it  burns  up  again  at  the  stroke  of  thought. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  247 

Come,  leave  him,  mistress;  we  will  go  with  you. 
There  is  no  woman  in  the  country  now 
Whose  name  can  kindle  men  as  yours  can  do  — 
Ay,  many  would  pile  for  you  the  silks  he  grudges; 
And  if  you  did  withdraw  your  potent  presence 
Eire  would  not  spare  this  house  so  reverently. 

Hallgerd 
Am  I  a  wandering  flame  that  sears  and  passes? 
We  must  bide  here,  good  Steinvor,  and  be  quiet. 
Without  a  man  a  woman  cannot  rule, 
Nor  kiU  without  a  knife;  and  where 's  the  man 
That  I  shall  put  before  this  goodly  Gunnar? 
I  will  not  be  made  less  by  a  less  man. 
There  is  no  man  so  great  as  my  man  Gunnar: 
I  have  set  men  at  him  to  show  forth  his  might ; 
I  have  planned  thefts  and  breakings  of  his  word 
When  my  pent  heart  grew  sore  with  fermentation 
Of  malice  too  long  undone,  yet  could  not  stir  him. 
Oh,  I  will  make  a  battle  of  the  Thing, 
Where  men  vow  holy  peace,  to  magnify  him. 
Is  it  not  rare  to  sit  and  wait  o'  nights, 
Knowing  that  murderousness  may  even  now 
Be  coming  down  outside  like  second  darkness 
Because  my  man  is  greater? 

Steinvor  (shuddering) 

Is  it  not  rare. 

Hallgerd 

That  blow  upon  the  face 

So  long  ago  is  best  not  spoken  of. 

I  drave  a  thrall  to  steal  and  burn  at  Otkell's 

WTio  would  not  sell  to  us  in  famine  time 

But  denied  Gunnar  as  if  he  were  suppliant: 


248  TIIE  RIDLNG  TO  LITIIEXD 

Then  at  our  feast  when  men  rode  from  the  Thing 

I  spread  the  stolen  food  and  Gunnar  knew. 

lie  smote  me  upon  the  face  —  indeed  he  smote  me. 

Oh,  Gunnar  smote  me  and  had  shame  of  me 

And  said  he'd  not  partake  with  any  thief; 

Although  I  stole  to  injure  his  despiser.  .  .  . 

But  if  he  had  abandoned  me  as  well 

'T  is  I  who  should  have  been  unmated  now; 

For  many  men  would  soon  have  judged  me  thief 

And  shut  me  from  this  land  until  I  died  — 

And  then  I  should  have  lost  him.  Yet  he  smote  me  — 

ASTRID 

He  kept  you  his  —  yea,  and  maybe  saved  you 

From  a  debasement  that  could  madden  or  kill. 

For  women  thieves  ere  now  have  felt  a  knife 

Severing  ear  or  nose.   And  yet  the  feud 

You  sowed  with  Otkcll's  house  shall  murder  Gunnar. 

Otkell  was  slain:  then  Gunnar's  enviers. 

Who  could  not  crush  him  under  his  own  horse 

At  the  big  horse-fight,  stirred  up  Otkell's  son 

To  avenge  his  father;  for  should  he  be  slain 

Two  in  one  stock  would  prove  old  Xjal's  foretelling. 

And  Gunnar's  place  be  emptied  either  way 

For  those  high  helpless  men  who  cannot  fill  it. 

O  mistress,  you  have  hurt  us  all  in  this: 

You  have  cut  o(T  your  strength,  you  have  maimed  youi 

self. 
You  are  losing  power  and  worsliip  and  men's  trust. 
When  Gunnar  dies  no  other  man  dare  take  you. 

Hallgerd 
You  gather  poison  in  your  mouth  for  me. 
A  liii,'li-l)orn  woman  may  handle  what  she  fancies 
Without  being  car-pruned  like  a  pilfering  beggar. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  249 

Look  to  your  ears  if  you  touch  ought  of  mine : 
Ay,  you  shall  join  the  mumping  sisterhood 
And  tramp  and  learn  your  difference  from  me. 

{She  turns  from  Astrid.) 
Steinvor,  I  have  remembered  the  great  veil, 
The  woven  cloud,  the  tissue  of  gold  and  garlands, 
That  Gunnar  took  from  some  outlandish  ship 
And  thinks  was  made  in  Greekland  or  in  Hind: 
Fetch  it  from  the  ambry  in  the  bower. 

(Steinvor  goes  out  by  the  dais  door.) 

Astrid 

Mistress,  indeed  you  are  a  cherished  woman. 
That  veil  is  worth  a  lifetime's  weight  of  coifs: 
I  have  heard  a  queen  offered  her  daughter  for  it, 
But  Gunnar  said  it  should  come  home  and  wait  — 
And  then  gave  it  to  you.  The  half  of  Iceland 
Tells  fabulous  legends  of  a  fabulous  thing. 
Yet  never  saw  it:  I  know  they  never  saw  it. 
For  ere  it  reached  the  ambry  I  came  on  it 
Tumbled  in  the  loft  with  ragged  kirtles. 

Hallgerd 

What,  are  you  there  again?  Let  Gunnar  alone. 

(Steinvor  enters  with  the  veil  folded.  Hallgerd  takes 
it  with  one  hand  and  shakes  it  into  a  heap.) 
This  is  the  cloth.  He  brought  it  out  at  night. 
In  the  first  hour  that  we  were  left  together. 
And  begged  of  me  to  wear  it  at  high  feasts 
And  more  outshine  all  women  of  my  time : 
He  shaped  it  to  my  head  with  my  gold  circlet, 
Saying  my  hair  smouldered  like  Rhine-fire  through, 
He  let  it  fall  about  my  neck,  and  fall 


250  TIIE  RIDING  TO  LITIIEXD 

About  my  shoulders,  mingle  viiih  my  skirts, 
And  billow  in  the  draught  along  the  floor. 

{She  rises  and  holds  the  veil  behind  Jier  head.) 
I  know  I  dazzled  as  if  I  entered  in 
And  walked  upon  a  windy  sunset  and  drank  it. 
Yet  must  I  stammer  with  such  strange  uncouthness 
And  tear  it  from  me,  tangling  my  arms  in  it. 
Why  should  I  so  befool  myself  and  seem 
A  laughable  bundle  in  each  woman's  eyes. 
Wearing  such  things  as  no  one  ever  wore, 
Useless  ...  no  head-cloth  .  .  .  too  unlike  my  fellows. 
Yet  he  turns  miser  for  a  tiny  coif. 
It  would  cut  into  many  golden  coifs 
And  dim  some  women  in  their  Irish  clouts  — 
But  no;  I'll  shape  and  stitch  it  into  shifts. 
Smirch  it  like  linen,  patch  it  with  rags,  to  watch 
His  silent  anger  when  he  sees  my  answer. 
Give  me  thy  shears,  girl  Oddny. 

Oddny 

You'll  not  part  it? 

IIallgerd 
I'll  shorten  it. 

Oddny 
I  have  no  shears  with  me 

IIallgerd 
No  matter;  I  can  start  it  with  my  teeth 
And  tear  it  down  the  folds.   So.   So.   So.   So. 
Here's  a  fine  shift  for  summer:  and  another. 
I'll  find  my  shears  and  chop  out  waists  and  neck-holes. 
Ay,  Gunnar,  Gunnar! 

{She  throxrs  the  tia.'^-ne  on  the  ground,  and  goes  out  by 
the  dais  door.) 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  251 

Oddny  {lifting  one  of  the  pieces) 
O  me!  A  wonder  has  vanished. 

Steinvor 

What  is  a  wonder  less?  She  has  done  finely, 
Setting  her  worth  above  dead  marvels  and  shows. 

{The  deep  menacing  baying  of  the  hound  is  heard  near 
at  hand.  A  woman's  cry  follows  it.) 
They  come,  they  come!  Let  us  flee  by  the  bower! 

{Starting  up,  she  stumbles  in  the  tissue  and  sinks  upon 
it.   The  others  rise.) 
You  are  leaving  me  —  will  you  not  wait  for  me  — 
Take,  take  me  with  you. 

{Mingled  cries  of  women  are  heard.) 

GnNNAB  {outside) 

Samm,  it  is  well :  be  still. 
Women,  be  quiet;  loose  me;  get  from  my  feet, 
Or  I  will  have  the  hound  to  wipe  me  clear. 

Steinvor  {recovering  herself) 

Women  are  sent  to  spy. 

{The  sound  of  a  door  being  opened  is  heard.  Gunnar 
enters  from  the  left,  followed  by  three  beggar-women, 
BiARTEY,  JoFRiD,  and  GuDFrNN.  They  hobble  and 
limp,  and  are  swaihedin  shapeless,  nameless  rags  which 
trail  about  their  feet:  Biartey's  left  sleeve  is  torn  com- 
pletely away,  leaving  her  arm  bare  and  mud-smeared; 
the  others*  skirts  are  torn,  and  Jofrid's  gown  at  the 
neck;  Gudfinn  wears  a  felt  hood  buttoned  under  her 
chin;  the  others'  faces  are  almost  hid  in  falling  tangles 
of  grey  hair.  Their  faces  are  shriveled  and  weather- 
beaten,  and  Biartey's  mouth  is  distorted  by  two  front 
teeth  thai  project  like  tusks.) 


2o2  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEXD 

GUNNAR 

Get  in  to  the  light. 
Yea,  has  he  mouthed  ye?  .  .  .  \Miat  men  send  ye  here? 
\Yho  are  ye?  Wlience  come  ye?  What  do  ye  seek? 
I  think  no  mother  ever  suckled  you : 
You  must  have  dragged  your  roots  up  in  waste  places 
One  foot  at  once,  or  heaved  a  shoulder  up  — 

Blvrtey  (interrupting  him) 
Out  of  the  bosoms  of  cairns  and  standing  stones. 
I  am  Biartey:  she  is  Jofrid:  she  is  Gudfinn: 
Wc  are  lone  women  known  to  no  man  now. 
We  are  not  sent:  we  come. 

GuNNAR 

Well,  you  come. 
You  appear  by  night,  rising  under  my  eyes 
Like  marshy  breath  or  shadows  on  the  wall; 
Yet  the  hound  scented  you  like  any  evil 
That  feels  upon  the  night  for  a  way  out. 
And  do  you,  then,  indeed  wend  alone? 
Came  you  from  the  West  or  the  sky-covering  North, 
Yet  saw  no  thin  steel  moving  in  the  dark? 

BlARTKY 

Not  West,  not  North:  we  slept  upon  the  East, 
Arising  in  the  East  where  no  men  dwell. 
We  have  abided  in  the  mountain  places. 
Chanted  our  w(h\s  among  tiie  black  rocks  crouching. 

(Gudfinn  joins  her  in  a  sing-song  ntlcrance.) 
From  the  East,  from  the  I-^ast  we  drove  and  the  wiml 

waved  us. 
Over  the  heaths,  over  the  barren  ashes. 
We  are  old,  our  eyes  are  old.  and  the  light  hurts  us. 
We  have  skins  on  our  eyes  that  part  alone  to  the  star-light. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  253 

We  stumble  about  the  night,  the  rocks  tremble 
Beneath  our  trembling  feet ;  black  sky  thickens, 
Breaks  into  clots,  and  lets  the  moon  upon  us. 

(JoFRiD  joiiis  her  voice  to  the  voices  of  the  other  two.) 
Far  from  the  men  who  fear  us,  men  who  stone  us. 
Hiding,  hiding,  flying  whene'er  they  slumber. 
High  on  the  crags  we  pause,  over  the  moon-gulfs; 
Black  clouds  fall  and  leave  us  up  in  the  moon-depths 
Where  wind  flaps  our  hair  and  cloaks  like  fin-webs, 
Ay,  and  our  sleeves  that  toss  with  our  arms  and  the  cadence 
Of  quavering  crying  among  the  threatening  echoes. 
Then  we  spread  our  cloaks  and  leap  down  the  rock-stairs, 
Sweeping  the  heaths  with  our  skirts,  greying  the  dew- 
bloom. 
Until  we  feel  a  pool  on  the  wide  dew  stretches 
Stilled  by  the  moon  or  ruffling  like  breast-feathers. 
And,  with  grey  sleeves  cheating  the  sleepy  herons. 
Squat  among  them,  pillow  us  there  and  sleep. 
But  in  the  harder  wastes  we  stand  upright. 
Like  splintered  rain-worn  boulders  set  to  the  wind 
In  old  confederacy,  and  rest  and  sleep. 

(Hallgerd's  women  are  huddled  together  and  clasping 
each  other.) 

Oddny 
What  can  these  women  be  who  sleep  like  horses, 
Standing  up  in  the  darkness?  What  will  they  do? 

GUNNAR 

Ye  wail  like  ravens  and  have  no  human  thoughts. 
What  do  ye  seek?  What  will  ye  here  with  us? 

BiARTEY  (as  all  three  cower  suddenly) 
Succour  upon  this  terrible  journeying. 
We  have  a  message  for  a  man  in  the  West, 
Sent  by  an  old  man  sitting  in  the  East. 


254  THE  RIDING   TO  LITIIEND 

We  are  spent,  our  feet  are  moving  wounds,  our  bodies 
Dream  of  themselves  and  seem  to  trail  behind  us 
Because  we  went  unfed  do\\-n  in  the  mountains. 
Feed  us  and  shelter  us  beneath  your  roof, 
And  put  us  over  the  Markfleet,  over  the  channels. 
Vt'e  are  weak  old  women:  we  are  beseeching  you. 

GuNTs-AR 

You  may  bide  here  this  night,  but  on  the  morrow 
You  shall  go  over,  for  tramping  shameless  women 
Carry  too  many  tales  from  stead  to  stoad  — 
And  sometimes  heavier  gear  than  breath  and  lies. 
These  women  will  tell  the  mistress  all  I  grant  you; 
Get  to  the  fire  until  she  shall  return. 

BlARTET 

Thou  art  a  merciful  man  and  we  shall  thank  thee. 

(GuNNAR  goes  out  again  to  the  left.    The  old  wonun  ap- 
proach the  young  ones  gradually.) 
Little  ones,  do  not  doubt  us.  Could  we  hurt  you? 
Because  we  are  ugly  must  we  be  bewitched? 

Steinvor 
Nay,  but  bewitch  us. 

BlARTEY 

Not  in  a  litten  house: 
Not  ere  the  hour  when  night  turns  on  itself 
And  shakes  the  silence:  not  while  ye  wnke  together. 
Sweet  voice,  tell  us,  was  that  verily  Gunnar? 

Steinvor 

Arrh  —  do  not  touch  me,  unclean  flyer-by-night: 
Have  ye  birds'  feet  to  match  such  bat-webbed  fingers? 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  255 

BlARTEY 

I  am  only  a  cowed  curst  woman  who  walks  with  death; 
I  will  crouch  here.  Tell  us,  was  it  Gunnar? 

Oddny 

Yea,  Gunnar  surely.  Is  he  not  big  enough 
To  fit  the  songs  about  him? 

BlARTEY  , 

He  is  a  man. 
Why  will  his  manhood  urge  him  to  be  dead? 
We  walk  about  the  whole  old  land  at  night, 
We  enter  many  dales  and  many  halls : 
And  everywhere  is  talk  of  Gunnar's  greatness. 
His  slayings  and  his  fate  outside  the  law. 
The  last  ship  has  not  gone:  why  will  he  tarry? 

Oddny 

He  chose  a  ship,  but  men  who  rode  with  him 
Say  that  his  horse  threw  him  upon  the  shore. 
His  face  toward  the  Lithe  and  his  own  fields; 
As  he  arose  he  trembled  at  what  he  gazed  on 
(Although  those  men  saw  nothing  pass  or  meet  them) 
And  said  .  .  .  What  said  he,  girls? 

ASTRID 

"Fair  is  the  Lithe: 
I  never  thought  it  was  so  far,  so  fair. 
Its  corn  is  white,  its  meadows  green  after  mowing. 
I  will  ride  home  again  and  never  leave  it." 

Oddny 

'T  is  an  unlikely  tale:  he  never  said  it. 

No  one  could  mind  such  things  in  such  an  hour. 


256  THE  RIDING   TO   LITHEXD 

Plainly  he  saw  his  fetch  come  down  the  sands, 
And  knew  he  need  not  seek  another  country 
And  take  that  with  him  to  walk  upon  the  deck 
In  night  and  storm. 

GUDFINN 

He,  he,  he!  Xo  man  speaks  thus. 

JOFRID 

No  man,  no  man:  he  must  be  doomed  somewhere. 

BlARTEY 

Doomed  and  fey,  my  sisters.  .  ,  .  We  arc  too  old. 
Yet  I'd  not  marvel  if  we  outlasted  him. 
Sisters,  that  is  a  fair  fierce  girl  who  spins.  .  .  . 
My  fair  fierce  girl,  you  could  fight  —  but  can  you  ride.' 
Would  you  not  shout  to  be  riding  in  a  storm? 
Ah — h,  girls  learnt  riding  well  when  I  was  a  girl. 
And  foam  rides  on  the  breakers  as  I  was  taught.  .  .  . 
My  fair  fierce  girl,  tell  me  your  noble  name. 

Oddny 
My  name  is  Oddny. 

BlAKTEY 

Oddny,  when  you  are  old 
Would  you  not  be  proud  to  be  no  man's  purse-string. 
But  wild  and  wantlering  and  friends  with  the  earth? 
Wander  with  us  and  learn  to  be  old  yet  living. 
We'd  win  fine  food  with  you  to  beg  for  us. 

Steinvciu 
Despised,  cast  out,  unclean,  and  loose  men's  night-bird. 

Oddny 
When  I  am  old  I  shall  be  some  man's  friend. 
And  hold  him  when  the  darkness  comes.  .  .  . 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  257 

BlARTEY 

And  mumble  by  the  fire  and  blink.  .  .  . 
Good  Oddny,  let  me  spin  for  you  awhile, 
That  Gunnar's  house  may  profit  by  his  guesting: 
Come,  trust  me  with  your  distafif.  .  .  . 


Oddny 

Wrought  on  a  distaff? 

Steinvob 


Are  there  spells 


Only  by  the  Norns, 
And  they'll  not  sit  with  human  folk  to-night. 

Oddny 

Then  you  may  spin  all  night  for  what  I  care; 
But  let  the  yarn  run  clean  from  knots  and  snarls. 
Or  I  shall  have  the  blame  when  you  are  gone. 

BiABTEY  {taking  the  distaff) 

Trust  well  the  aged  knowledge  of  my  hands; 

Thin  and  thin  do  I  spin,  and  the  thread  draws  finer. 

{She  sings  as  she  spins.) 

They  go  by  three. 
And  the  moon  shivers; 
The  tired  waves  flee. 
The  hidden  rivers 
Also  flee. 

I  take  three  strands; 
There  is  one  for  her. 
One  for  my  hands. 
And  one  to  stir 
For  another's  bands. 

18 


258  TIIE   RIDING   TO   LITIIEXD 

I  twine  them  thinner, 
The  dead  wool  doubts; 
The  outer  is  inner. 
The  core  slips  out.   .   .   . 

(IIallgerd  reenters  by  the  dais  door,  holding  a  pair  of 
shears.) 

Hallgerd 
\Miat  are  these  women,  Oddny?  ^^^ao  let  them  in? 

BiARTEY  {icho  spins  through  all  that  folloics) 

Lady,  the  man  of  fame  who  is  your  man 
Gave  us  his  peace  to-night,  and  that  of  his  house. 
We  are  blown  beggars  tramping  about  the  land, 
Denied  a  home  for  our  evil  and  vagrant  hearts; 
We  sought  this  shelter  when  the  first  dew  soaked  us. 
And  should  have  perished  by  the  giant  hound 
But  Gunnar  fought  it  with  his  eyes  and  saved  us. 
That  is  a  strange  hound,  with  a  man's  mind  in  it. 

Hallgerd  (seating  herself  in  the  high-seat) 

It  is  an  Irish  hound,  from  that  strange  soil 
Where  men  by  day  walk  with  imearthly  eyes 
And  cross  the  veils  of  the  air.  and  are  not  men 
Hut  fierce  abstractions  eating  their  own  hearts 
Impatiently  and  seeing  too  much  to  be  joj-ful. 
If  Gunnar  welcomed  ye,  ye  may  remain. 

Blvrtey 

She  is  a  fair  free  lady,  is  she  not? 

But  that  was  to  be  looked  for  in  a  hi<:h  one 

Who  counts  among  her  fathers  the  bright  Sigurd, 

The  bane  of  Fafnir  the  Worm,  the  end  of  the  god-kings; 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  259 

Among  her  mothers  Brynhild,  the  lass  of  Odin, 
The  maddener  of  swords,  the  night-clouds'  rider. 
She  has  kept  sweet  that  father's  lore  of  bird-speech, 
She  wears  that  mother's  power  to  cheat  a  god. 
Sisters,  she  does  well  to  be  proud. 

JOFRID   and   GUDFINN 

Ay,  well. 

Hallgerd  (shaping  the  tissue  with  her  shears) 

I  need  no  witch  to  tell  I  am  of  rare  seed, 

Nor  measure  my  pride  nor  praise  it.  Do  I  not  know? 

Old  women,  ye  are  welcomed :  sit  with  us, 

And  while  we  stitch  tell  us  what  gossip  runs  — 

But  if  strife  might  be  warmed  by  spreading  it. 

BlARTEY 

Lady,  we  are  hungered;  we  were  lost 
All  night  among  the  mountains  of  the  East; 
Clouds  of  the  cliffs  come  down  my  eyes  again. 
I  pray  you  let  some  thrall  bring  us  to  food. 

Hallgerd 

Ye  get  nought  here.  The  supper  is  long  over; 

The  women  shall  not  let  ye  know  the  food-house. 

Or  ye '11  be  thieving  in  the  night.  Ye  are  idle. 

Ye  suck  a  man's  house  bare  and  seek  another. 

'T  is  bed-time;  get  to  sleep  —  that  stills  much  hunger. 

Bl\rtey 

Now  it  is  easy  to  be  seeing  what  spoils  you. 
You  were  not  grasping  or  ought  but  over  warm 
When  Sigmund,  Gunnar's  kinsman,  guested  here. 
You  followed  him,  you  were  too  kind  with  him. 


260  THE  RIDING  TO  LITIIEND 

You  lavished  Gunnar's  treasure  and  gear  on  him 
To  draw  him  on,  and  did  not  call  that  thieving. 
Ay,  Sigmund  took  your  feuds  on  him  and  died 
As  Gunnar  shall.  Men  have  much  harm  by  you. 

IIallgerd 

Now  have  I  gashed  the  golden  cloth  awry: 

'T  is  ended  —  a  ruin  of  clouts  —  the  worth  of  the  gift  — 

Bridal  dish-clouts  —  nay,  a  bundle  of  flame 

I'll  burn  it  to  a  breath  of  its  old  queen's  ashes: 

Fire,  O  fire,  drink  up. 

{She  throws  the  shreds  of  the  veil  on  the  glowing  embers: 
they  waft  to  ashes  icith  a  brief  high  flare.    She  goes  to 

JOFRID.) 

There 's  one  of  you 
That  holds  her  head  in  a  bird's  sideways  fashion: 
I  know  that  reach  o'  the  chin.  —  What 's  under  thy  hair.'  — 
{She  fixes  Jofrid  with  her  knee,  and  lifts  her  hair.) 
Pfui,  't  is  not  hair,  but  sojjpcd  and  rotting  moss  — 
A  thief,  a  thief  indeed.  —  And  twice  a  thief. 
She  has  no  ears.  Keep  thy  hooked  fingers  still 
While  thou  art  here,  for  if  I  miss  a  mouthful 
Thou  shalt  miss  all  thy  nose.   Get  up,  get  up; 
I  '11  lodge  ye  with  the  mares. 

Jofrid  {starting  up) 

Three  men,  three  men, 
Three  men  have  wived  you,  and  for  all  you  gave  them 
Paid  with  three  blows  upon  a  cheek  once  kissed  — 
To  every  man  a  blow  —  and  the  last  blow 
All  the  land  knows  was  won  by  thieving  food.  .  .  . 
Yea,  GiHinar  is  ended  by  the  theft  and  the  thief. 
Is  it  not  told  that  when  you  first  grew  tall. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  261 

A  false  rare  girl,  Hrut  your  own  kinsman  said, 
"I  know  not  whence  thief's  eyes  entered  our  blood." 
You  have  more  ears,  yet  are  you  not  my  sister? 
Our  evil  vagrant  heart  is  deeper  in  you. 

Hallgerd  {snatching  the  distaff  from  Biartey) 

Out  and  be  gone,  be  gone.  Lie  with  the  mountains. 
Smother  among  the  thunder;  stale  dew  mould  you. 
Outstrip  the  hound,  or  he  shall  so  embrace  you.  .  .  . 

Biartey 

Now  is  all  done  ...  all  done  .  .  .  and  all  your  deed. 
She  broke  the  thread,  and  it  shall  not  join  again. 
Spindle,  spindle,  the  coiling  weft  shall  dwindle; 
Leap  on  the  fire  and  burn,  for  all  is  done. 

{She  casts  the  spindle  upon  the  fire,  and  stretches  her 
hands  toward  it.) 

Hallgerd  {attacking  them  with  the  distaff) 
Into  the  night.  .  .  .  Dissolve.  .  .  . 

Biartey  {as  the  three  rush  toward  the  door) 

Sisters,  away: 
Leave  the  woman  to  her  smouldering  beauty. 
Leave  the  fire  that 's  kinder  than  the  woman, 
Leave  the  roof-tree  ere  it  falls.  It  falls. 

(GuDFiNN  joins  her.   Each  time  Hallgerd  flags  they 
turn  as  they  chant,  and  point  at  her.) 
We  shall  cry  no  more  in  the  high  rock-places. 
We  are  gone  from  the  night,  the  winds  and  the  clouds  are 

empty : 
Soon  the  man  in  the  West  shall  receive  our  message. 

(Jofrid's  voice  joins  the  other  voices.) 


2G2  THE  RIDING  TO  LITIIEXD 

Men  reject  us,  yet  their  house  is  unstable. 

The  slayers'  hands  are  warm  —  the  sound  of  their  riding 

Reached  us  down  the  ages,  ever  approaching, 

Hallgerd  {at  the  same  time,  her  voice  high  over  theirs) 
Pack,  ye  rag-heaps  —  or  I  '11  unravel  you. 

The  Three  {continuously) 
House  that  spurns  us,  woe  shall  come  upon  you : 
Death  shall  hollow  you.  Now  we  curse  the  woman  — 
May  all  the  woes  smite  her  till  she  can  feel  thera. 
Shall  we  not  roost  in  her  bower  yet?  Woe!  Woe! 

{The  distaff  breaks,  and  Hallgerd  drives  them  out  irith 
her  hands.  Their  voices  continue  for  a  moment  outside, 
dying  away.) 
Call  to  the  owl-friends.  .  .  .  Woe!  Woe!  Woe! 

ASTRID 

Whence  came  these  mounds  of  dread  to  haunt  the  night? 
It  doubles  this  disquiet  to  have  them  near  us. 

OODNY 

They  must  be  witches  —  and  it  was  my  distaff  — 
Will  fire  eat  through  me.  .  .  . 

Steinvor 

Or  the  Norns  themselves. 

Hallgerd 
Or  bad  old  women  used  to  govern  by  fear. 
To  bed,  to  bed  —  we  arc  all  up  too  late. 

Steinvor  (as  she  turns  iciih  Astrio  and  Oddny  to  the  dais) 

If  beds  arc  made  for  sleep  we  niij^ht  sit  lonj;. 

{They  go  out  by  the  dais  door.) 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND 

GuNNAB  (as  he  enters  hastily  from  the  left) 
Where  are  those  women?  There's  some  secret  in  them: 
I  have  heard  such  others  crying  down  to  them. 

Hallgerd 
They  turned  foul-mouthed,  they  beckoned  evil  toward  us  — 
I  drove  them  forth  a  breath  ago. 

GUNNAR 

Forth?  Whence? 
Hallgerd 
By  the  great  door :  they  cried  about  the  night. 

(RaNNVEIG  follows  GuNNAR  ITl.) 
GuNNAR 

Nay,  but  I  entered  there  and  passed  them  not. 
Mother,  where  are  the  women? 

Rannveig 

I  saw  none  come. 

GuNNAR 

They  have  not  come,  they  have  gone. 

Rannveig 

I  crossed  the  yard. 
Hearing  a  noise,  but  a  big  bird  dropped  past, 
Beating  my  eyes;  and  then  the  yard  was  clear. 

(The  deep  baying  of  the  hound  is  heard  again.) 

GuNNAR 

They  must  be  spies:  yonder  is  news  of  them. 

The  wise  hound  knew  them,  and  knew  them  again. 

{The  haying  is  succeeded  by  one  vnld  howl.) 

Nay,  nay! 


264  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEXD 

Men  treat  thee  sorely,  Samm  my  fosterling: 
Even  by  death  thou  warnest  —  but  it  is  meant 
That  our  two  deaths  will  not  be  far  apart. 

RAN>rV'EIG 

Think  you  that  men  are  yonder? 

GUNNAR 

Men  are  yonder. 
Rannveig 
My  son,  my  son,  get  on  the  rattling  war-woof. 
The  old  grey  shift  of  Odin,  the  hide  of  steel. 
Handle  the  snake  with  edges,  the  fang  of  the  rings. 

GuNNAR  (going  to  the  weapons  by  the  high-seat) 
There  are  not  enough  moments  to  get  under 
That  heavy  fleece :  an  iron  hat  must  serve. 

Hallgerd 
O  brave!  O  brave!  —  he'll  dare  them  with  no  shield. 

GuNNAR  {lifting  clown  the  great  bill) 
Let  me  but  roach  this  haft,  I  shall  get  hold 
Of  steel  enough  to  fence  me  all  about. 

{He  shakes  the  bill  above  his  head:  a  deep  resonant  hum- 
ming follows. 
The  dais  door  is  thrown  open,  and  Opony,  Astrid,  and 
Steinvor  stream  through  in  their  night-clothes.) 

Steinvou 
The  bill! 

Oddny 
The  bill  is  singing! 

Astrid 

The  bill  sings! 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  265 

GuNNAR  (shaking  the  bill  again) 
Ay,  brain-biter,  waken.  .  .  .  Awake  and  whisper 
Out  of  the  throat  of  dread  thy  one  brief  burden. 
Blind  art  thou,  and  thy  kiss  will  do  no  choosing : 
Worn  art  thou  to  a  hair's  grey  edge,  a  nothing 
That  slips  through  all  it  finds,  seeking  more  nothing. 
There  is  a  time,  brain-biter,  a  time  that  comes 
When  there  shall  be  much  quietness  for  thee; 
Men  will  be  still  about  thee.  I  shall  know. 
It  is  not  yet :  the  wind  shall  hiss  at  thee  first. 
Ahui!  Leap  up,  brain-biter;  sing  again. 
Sing!  Sing  thy  verse  of  anger  and  feel  my  hands. 

Rannveig 
Stand  thou,  my  Gunnar,  in  the  porch  to  meet  them, 
And  the  great  door  shall  keep  thy  back  for  thee. 

Gunnar 
I  had  a  brother  there.  Brother,  where  are  you.  .  .  . 

Hallgerd 
Nay,  nay.  Get  thou,  my  Gunnar,  to  the  loft, 
Stand  at  the  casement,  watch  them  how  they  come. 
Arrows  maybe  could  drop  on  them  from  there. 

Rannveig 
'T  is  good :  the  woman's  cunning  for  once  is  faithful. 

Gunnar  (turning  again  to  the  weapons) 
'T  is  good,  for  now  I  hear  a  foot  that  stumbles 
Along  the  stable-roof  against  the  hall. 
My  bow  —  where  is  my  bow?  Here  with  its  arrows.  ,  .  . 
Go  in  again,  you  women  on  the  dais. 
And  listen  at  the  casement  of  the  bower 
For  men  who  cross  the  yard,  and  for  their  words. 


266  THE  RIDING  TO  LITIIEND 

ASTRID 

O  Gunnar,  we  shall  serve  you. 

(AsTRiD,  Oddny,  and  Steenvor  go  out  by  the  dais  door.) 

Rannveig 

Ilallgcrd,  come; 
We  must  shut  fast  the  door,  bar  the  great  door, 
Or  they'll  be  in  on  us  and  murder  him. 

Hallgerd 

Not  I:  I 'd  rather  set  the  door  wide  open 
And  watch  my  Gunnar  kindling  at  the  peril, 
Keeping  them  back  —  shaming  men  for  ever 
Who  could  not  enter  at  a  gaping  door. 

Rannveiq 

Bar  the  great  door,  I  say,  or  I  will  bar  it  — 

Door  of  the  house  you  rule.  .  .  .  Son,  son,  command  it. 

Gunnar  {as  he  ascends  to  the  loft) 

O  spendthrift  fire,  do  you  waft  up  again? 

Hallgerd,  what  riot  of  ruinous  chance  will  sate  you?  .  .  . 

I^t  the  door  stand,  my  mother:  it  is  her  way. 

{lie  looks  out  at  the  casement.) 
Here's  a  red  kirtlc  on  the  lower  roof. 

{He  thrusts  with  the  bill  through  the  casement.) 

A  Man's  Voice  {far  off) 
Is  Gunnar  within? 

TiiORGRiM  THE  Easterling's  Voice  {near  the  casement) 

Find  that  ont  for  yourselves: 
I  ;im  only  sure  his  bill  is  yet  within. 

(.1  noise  of  falling  is  heard.) 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  267 

GUNNAR 

The  Easterling  from  Sandgil  might  be  dying  — 
He  has  gone  down  the  roof,  yet  no  feet  helped  him. 

(A  shouting  of  many  men  is  heard:  Gunnar  starts 
back  from  the  casement  as  several  arrows  fly  in.) 
Now  there  are  black  flies  biting  before  a  storm. 
I  see  men  gathering  beneath  the  cart-shed : 
Gizm-  the  WTiite  and  Geir  the  priest  are  there. 
And  a  lean  whispering  shape  that  should  be  Mord. 
I  have  a  sting  for  some  one  — 

(He  looses  an  arrow:  a  distant  cry  follows.) 
Valgard's  voice.  .  .  . 
A  shaft  of  theirs  is  lying  on  the  roof; 
I  '11  send  it  back,  for  if  it  should  take  root 
A  hurt  from  their  own  spent  and  worthless  weapon 
Would  put  a  scorn  upon  their  tale  for  ever, 

(He  leans  out  for  ike  arrow.) 

Rannveig 
Do  not,  my  son:  rouse  them  not  up  again 
When  they  are  slackening  in  their  attack. 

Hallgerd 
Shoot,  shoot  it  out,  and  I  '11  come  up  to  mock  them. 

Gunnar  {loosing  the  arrow) 
Hoia !  Swerve  down  upon  them,  little  hawk. 

(.4  shout  follows.) 
Now  they  run  all  together  round  one  man ; 
Now  they  murmur  .  .  . 

A  Voice 
Close  in,  lift  bows  again: 
He  has  no  shafts,  for  this  is  one  of  ours. 

{Arrows  fly  in  at  the  casement.) 


208  THE  RIDING  TO  LITIIEND 

GUNNAK 

Wife,  here  is  something  in  my  arm  at  last: 
The  head  is  twisted  —  I  must  cut  it  clear. 

(Steinvor  iliroics  open  the  dais  door  and  rushes  through 
with  a  high  shriek.) 

Steinvor 

Woman,  let  us  out  —  help  us  out  — 

The  burning  comes  —-  thoy  are  calling  out  for  fire. 

{She  shrieks  again.  Oddxy  and  Astrid,  who  have 
come  behind  her,  muffle  her  head  in  a  kirtle  and  lift 
her.) 

Astrid  (turni7ig  as  they  bear  her  out) 

Fire  suffuses  only  her  cloudy  braiii: 

The  fiare  she  walks  in  is  on  the  other  side 

Of  her  shot  eyes.  We  heard  a  passionate  voice, 

A  slirill  unworaanish  voice  that  must  he  Mord, 

With  "Lot  us  burn  hira  —  i)urn  him  house  and  all." 

And  then  a  grave  and  trembling  voice  replied, 

"Althouf^h  my  life  hung  on  it,  it  shall  not  be." 

Again  the  cunning  fanatic  voice  went  on 

"I  say  the  house  must  burn  above  his  head." 

And  the  unlifted  voice,  "Why  wilt  thou  si)eak 

Of  what  none  wishes:  it  shall  never  be." 

(Astrid  and  Oddny  disappear  with  Steinvor.) 

GUNNAR 

To  fight  with  honest  men  is  worth  much  friendship: 
I  '11  strive  with  them  again. 

{He  lifts  his  bow  atul  loosens  arrows  at  intcrcals  while 
Hallgeuu  and  Rannvkk;  speak.) 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  269 

Hallgerd  (in  an  undertone  to  Rannveig,  looking  out 
meanwhile  to  the  left) 

Mother,  come  here  — 
Come  here  and  hearken.  Is  there  not  a  foot, 
A  stealthy  step,  a  fumbhng  on  the  latch 
Of  the  great  door?  They  come,  they  come,  old  mother: 
Are  you  not  blithe  and  thirsty,  knowing  they  come 
And  cannot  be  held  back?  Watch  and  be  secret, 
To  feel  things  pass  that  cannot  be  undone. 

Rannveig 

It  is  the  latch.  Cry  out,  cry  out  for  Gunnar, 
And  bring  him  from  the  loft. 

Hallgerd 

Oh,  never: 
For  then  they'd  swarm  upon  him  from  the  roof. 
Leave  him  up  there  and  he  can  bay  both  armies. 
While  the  whole  dance  goes  merrily  before  us 
And  we  can  warm  our  hearts  at  such  a  flare. 

Rannveig  (turning  both  ways,  while  Hallgerd  watches 
her  gleefully) 

Gunnar,  my  son,  my  son!  What  shall  I  do? 

(Ormild  enters  from  the  left,  white  and  urith  her  hand 
to  her  side,  and  walking  as  one  sick.) 

Hallgerd 
Bah  —  here's  a  bleached  assault.  .  .  . 

Rannveig 

Oh,  lonesome  thing. 
To  be  forgot  and  left  in  such  a  night. 
What  is  there  now  —  are  terrors  surging  still? 


270  THE  RIDING  TO  LITEIEND 

Ormild 

I  know  not  what  has  gone:  when  the  men  came 
I  hid  in  the  far  cowhouse.   I  think  I  swooned.   .   .   . 
And  then  I  followed  the  shadow.   \Yho  is  dead? 

Rannveig 

Go  to  the  bower:  the  women  will  care  for  you. 

(Ormild  totters  vp  the  hall  from  pillar  to  pillar.) 

T 
AsTRiD  {entering  by  the  dais  door)  \ 

Now  they  have  found  the  weather-ropes  and  lashed  them 
Over  the  carven  ends  of  the  beams  outside: 
They  bear  on  them,  they  tighten  them  with  levers, 
And  soon  they'll  tear  the  high  roof  off  the  hall. 

GUNNAR 

Get  back  and  bolt  the  women  into  the  bower, 

(AsTRiD  talccs  OuMiLD,  who  has  just  reached  her,  and 

goes  out  xcith  her  by  the  dais  door,  ichich  closes  after 

them.) 
Hallgerd,  go  in:  I  shall  be  here  thereafter. 

Hallgerd 
I  will  not  stir.   Your  mother  had  best  go  in. 

Rannveig 
How  shall  I  stir? 

Voices  (outside  and  gathering  volume) 

Ai   .   .   .   Ai   .   .   .   Roach  harder  .   .   .   Ai   .   .   . 

GUNNAR 

Stand  clear,  stand  clear  —  it  moves. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  271 

The  Voices 

It  moves  .  .  .  Ai,  ai  .  .  . 

(The  wlwle  roof  slides  down  rumhlingly,  disappearing 
vyith  a  crash  behind  the  wall  of  the  house.  All  is  dark 
above.  Fine  snow  sifts  down  now  and  then  to  the  end 
of  the  play.) 

GuNNAR  (handling  his  bow) 
The  wind  has  changed :  '  t  is  coming  on  to  snow. 
The  harvesters  will  hmry  in  to-morrow. 

(Thorbrand  Thorleiksson  appears  above  the  wall- 
top  a  little  past  Gunnar,  and,  reaching  noiselessly 
with  a  sword,  cuts  Gunnar's  bowstring.) 

Gunnar  (dropping  the  bow  and  seizing  his  bill) 
Ay,  Thorbrand,  is  it  thou?  That's  a  rare  blade, 
Toshearthroughhempandgut.  .  .  .  Let  your  wife  have  it 
For  snipping  needle-yarn;  or  try  it  again. 

Thorbrand  (raising  his  sword) 
I  must  be  getting  back  ere  the  snow  thickens: 
So  here 's  my  message  to  the  end  —  or  farther. 
Gunnar,  this  night  it  is  time  to  start  your  journey 
And  get  you  out  of  Iceland.  .  .  . 

Gunnar  (thrusting  at  Thorbrand  vrith  the  bill) 

I  think  it  is: 
So  you  shall  go  before  me  in  the  dark. 
Wait  for  me  when  you  find  a  quiet  shelter. 

(Thorbrand  sinks  backward  from  the  wall  and  is 
heard  to  fall  farther.  Immediately  Asbrand  Thor- 
leiksson starts  up  in  his  place.) 

Asbrand  (striking  repeatedly  with  a  sword) 
Oh,  down,  down,  down! 


272  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND 

GuNNAR  (parrying  the  blows  with  the  bill) 

Ay,  Asbrand,  thou  as  well? 
Thy  brother  Thorbrand  was  up  here  but  now: 
He  has  gone  back  the  other  way,  maylje  — 
Be  hasty,  or  you'll  not  come  up  with  him. 

(He  thrusts  with  the  bill:  Asbrand  lifts  a  shield  before 
the  bloic.) 
Here's  the  first  shield  that  I  have  seen  to-night. 

(The  bill  pierces  the  shield:  Asbrand  disappears  and 
is  heard  to  fall.  Gunnar  turns  from  the  casement.) 
Hallgerd,  my  harp  that  had  but  one  long  string, 
But  one  low  song,  but  one  brief  wingy  flight. 
Is  voiceless,  for  my  bowstring  is  cut  off. 
Sever  two  locks  of  hair  for  my  sake  now. 
Spoil  those  bright  coils  of  power,  give  me  your  hair, 
And  with  my  mother  twist  those  locks  together 
Into  a  bowstring  for  me.   Fierce  small  head. 
Thy  stinging  tresses  shall  scourge  men  forth  by  me. 

Hallgerd 
Does  ought  lie  on  it? 

Gunn.vr 
Nought  but  my  life  lies  on  it; 
For  they  will  never  dare  to  close  on  me 
If  I  can  keep  my  bow  bended  and  singing. 

Hallgerd  (tos.s^ing  hack  her  hair) 
Then  now  I  call  to  your  mind  that  bygone  blow 
You  gave  my  face;  and  never  a  whit  do  I  care 
If  you  hold  out  a  long  time  or  a  short. 

GuNNAR 

Every  num  who  has  trod  a  war-ship's  deck. 
And  borne  a  weapon  of  pride,  has  a  i)roud  heart 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  273 

And  asks  not  twice  for  any  little  thing. 
Hallgerd,  I  '11  ask  no  more  from  you,  no  more. 

Rannveig  (tearing  off  her  mmple) 

She  will  not  mar  her  honour  of  widowhood. 

Oh,  widows'  manes  are  priceless.  .  .  .  Off,  mean  wimple  — 

I  am  a  finished  widow,  why  do  you  hide  me? 

Son,  son  who  knew  my  bosom  before  hers, 

Look  down  and  curse  for  an  unreverend  thing 

An  old  bald  woman  who  is  no  use  at  last. 

These  bleachy-threads,  these  tufts  of  death's  first  combing, 

And  loosening  heart-strings  twisted  up  together 

Would  not  make  half  a  bowstring.  Son,  forgive  me.  .  .  . 

GUNNAR 

A  grasping  woman's  gold  upon  her  head 
Is  made  for  hoarding,  like  all  other  gold : 
A  spendthrift  woman's  gold  upon  her  head 
Is  made  for  spending  on  herself.  Let  be  — 
She  goes  her  heart's  way,  and  I  go  to  earth, 

(Autstund's  head  rises  above  the  wall  near  Gunnar.) 
What,  are  you  there? 

AUNUND 

Yea,  Gunnar,  we  are  here. 

Gunnar  (thrusting  with  the  hill) 

Then  bide  you  there. 

(Aunund's  head  sinks;  Thorgeir's  rises  in  the  same 
'place.) 

How  many  heads  have  you? 

Thorgeir 
But  half  as  many  as  the  feet  we  grow  on. 

19 


274  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND 

GUNNAR 

And  I've  not  yet  used  up  {thrusting  again)  all  my  hands. 

(As  he  thrusts  another  man  rises  a  little  farther  back, 

and  leaps  past  him  into  the  loft.    Others  follow,  and 

GuNNAR  is  soon  surrounded  by  viany  armed  men,  so 

that  only  the  ri^-ing  and  falling  of  his  bill  is  seen.) 

The  threshjng-floor  is  full.  .  .  .  Up,  up,  brain-biter! 

We  work  too  late  to-night  —  up,  open  the  husks. 

Oh,  smite  and  pulse 

On  their  anvil  heads: 

The  smithy  is  full, 

There  are  shoes  to  be  made 

For  the  hoofs  of  tiie  steeds 

Of  the  Valkyr  girls.  .  .  . 

First  Man 
Hack  through  the  shaft.  .  .  . 

Second  Man 
Receive  the  blade 
In  the  breast  of  a  shield, 
And  wrench  it  round.  .  .  . 

Gl'NNAR 

For  the  hoofs  of  the  steeds 
Of  the  Valkyr  girls 
Who  race  up  the  night 
To  be  first  at  our  feast. 
First  in  the  play 
With  immortal  spears 
In  deadly  holes.  .  .  . 

Third  Man 
Try  at  his  back.  .  .  . 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  275 

IVIany  Voices  {shouting  in  confusion) 

Have   him    down.  .  .   .  Heels   on   the   bill.  .   .   .  Ahui, 
ahui  .   .  . 

{The  bill  does  not  rise.) 

Hroald  {toith  the  breaking  voice  of  a  young  man, 
{high  over  all) 

Father  ...  It  is  my  blow.  ...  It  is  I  who  kill  him. 

{The  crowd  parts,  suddenly  silent,  showing  Gunnar 
fallen.  Rannveig  covers  her  face  with  her  hands.) 

Hallgerd  (Jaughing  as  she  leans  forward  and  holds  her 
breasts  in  her  hands) 

O  clear  sweet  laughter  of  my  heart,  flow  out ! 

It  is  so  mighty  and  beautiful  and  blithe 

To  watch  a  man  dying  —  to  hover  and  watch. 

Rannveig 
Cease:  are  you  not  immortal  in  shame  already? 

Hallgerd 

Heroes,  what  deeds  ye  compass,  what  great  deeds  — 
One  man  has  held  ye  from  an  open  door: 
Heroes,  heroes,  are  ye  undefeated? 

GizuR  {an  old  white-bearded  man,  to  the  other  riders) 

We  have  laid  low  to  earth  a  mighty  chief: 
We  have  laboured  harder  than  on  greater  deeds, 
And  maybe  won  remembrance  by  the  deeds 
Of  Gunnar  when  no  deed  of  ours  should  live; 
For  this  defence  of  his  shall  outlast  kingdoms 
And  gather  him  fame  till  there  are  no  more  men. 


276  THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEXD 

MORD 

Come  do\NTi  and  splinter  those  old  birds  his  gods 
That  perch  upon  the  carven  high-seat  piJlars, 
Wreck  every  place  his  shadow  fell  upon, 
Rive  out  his  gear,  drive  off  his  forfeit  beasts. 

Second  ^L^.n 
It  shall  not  be. 

Many  Men 
Never. 

GiZUB 

We'll  never  do  it: 
Let.no  man  lift  a  blade  or  finger  a  clout  — 
Is  not  this  Gunnar,  Gunnar,  whom  we  have  slain? 
Home,  home,  before  the  dawn  shows  all  our  deed, 

{The  riders  go  down  quickly  over  the  wall-top,  and  dis- 
appear.) 

Hallgerd 

Now  I  shall  close  his  nostrils  and  his  eyes. 
And  thereby  take  his  blood-feud  into  my  hands. 

R.VNNVKIG 

If  you  do  stir  I'll  choke  you  with  your  hair. 
I  will  not  let  your  murderous  mind  be  near  him 
When  he  no  more  can  choose  and  docs  not  know. 

Hallgerd 

His  wife  I  was,  and  yet  he  never  juilgod  me: 
lie  did  not  set  your  motherhood  between  us. 
Let  me  alone  —  I  stand  here  for  my  sons. 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  277 

Rannveig 

The  wolf,  tlie  carrion  bird,  and  the  fair  woman 

Hurry  upon  a  corpse,  as  if  they  think 

That  all  is  left  for  them  the  grey  gods  need  not. 

(She  twines  her  hands  in  Hallgerd's  hair  and  draws 
her  down  to  the  floor.) 
Oh,  I  will  comb  your  hair  with  bones  and  thumbs. 
Array  these  locks  in  my  right  widow's  way, 
And  deck  you  like  the  bed-mate  of  the  dead. 
Lie  down  upon  the  earth  as  Gunnar  lies, 
Or  I  can  never  match  him  in  your  looks 
And  whiten  you  and  make  your  heart  as  cold. 

Hallgerd 

Mother,  what  will  you  do?  Unloose  me  now  — 
Your  eyes  would  not  look  so  at  me  alone. 

Raknveig 

Be  still,  my  daughter.  .  .  . 

Hallgerd 

And  then? 

Rannveig 

Ah,  do  not  fear  — 
I  see  a  peril  nigh  and  all  its  blitheness. 
Order  your  limbs  —  stretch  out  your  length  of  beauty. 
Let  down  your  hands  and  close  those  deepening  eyes. 
Or  you  can  never  stiflfen  as  you  should. 
A  murdered  man  should  have  a  murdered  wife 
^Vhen  all  his  fate  is  treasured  in  her  mouth. 
This  wifely  hairpin  will  be  sharp  enough. 


278  THE  RIDING   TO  LITIIEXD 

Hallgerd  {starting  up  as  Ranxveig  half  loosens  her  to  take 
a  hairpin  from  her  oim  head) 

She  is  mad,  mad.  .  .  .  Oh,  tlie  bower  is  barred  — 
Hallgerd,  come  out,  let  mountains  cover  you. 

{She  rushes  out  to  the  left.) 

Rannveig  {folloinng  her) 
The  night  take  you  indeed.  .  .  . 

GizuR  {as  he  enters  from  the  left) 

Ay,  drive  her  out; 
For  no  man's  house  was  ever  better  by  her. 

Rannveig 

Is  an  old  woman's  life  desired  as  well? 

GiZUR 

We  ask  that  you  will  grant  us  earth  hereby 
Of  Gunnar's  earth,  for  two  men  dead  to-night 
To  lie  beneath  a  cairn  that  wo  shall  raise. 

Rannveig 

Only  for  two?  Take  it:  ask  more  of  me. 
I  wish  the  measure  were  for  all  of  you. 

GiZUR 

Your  words  must  be  forgiven  you,  old  mother, 
For  none  has  had  a  greater  loss  than  yours. 
Why  would  he  st-t  himself  against  us  all.  .   .  . 

{He  goes  oiU.) 
Rannveig 

Gunnar,  my  son,  we  are  alone  again. 

{She  goes  up  the  hall,  mounts  to  the  loft,  and  stoops  beside 
him.) 


THE  RIDING  TO  LITHEND  279 

Oh,  they  have  hurt  you  —  but  that  is  forgot. 
Boy,  it  is  bedtime;  though  I  am  too  changed, 
And  cannot  Hft  you  up  and  lay  you  in, 
You  shall  go  warm  to  bed  —  I  '11  put  you  there. 
There  is  no  comfort  in  my  breast  to-night. 
But  close  your  eyes  beneath  my  fingers'  touch. 
Slip  your  feet  down,  and  let  me  smooth  your  hands: 
Then  sleep  and  sleep.  Ay,  all  the  world's  asleep. 

{She  rises.) 
You  had  a  rare  toy  when  you  were  awake  — 
I  '11  wipe  it  with  my  hair.  .  .  .  Nay,  keep  it  so. 
The  colour  on  it  now  has  gladdened  you. 
It  shall  lie  near  you. 

{She  raises  the  hill:  the  deep  hum  follows.) 
No;  it  remembers  him. 
And  other  men  shall  fall  by  it  through  Gunnar: 
The  bill,  the  bill  is  singing.  .  .  .  The  bill  sings! 

{She  kisses  the  weapon,  then  shakes  it  on  high.) 

[  Curtain  ] 


QUESTIONS  FOR  DISCUSSION 
IN  READING  THE  PLAYS 

1.  The  Forces  in  the  Play. 

What  is  the  "passion"  —  that  is,  what  exactly  do  these 
people  desu-e  who  "want  their  ain  way"?  What  forces 
favor  these  desires,  and  what  oppose  them  —  for  instance, 
David  Pirnie's  determination  to  tell  wee  Alexander  a  bit 
story,  in  The  Philosopher  of  Butierbiggens  ?  Can  you  always 
put  any  one  character  altogether  on  one  side?  Or  does 
his  own  weakness  or  carelessness  or  stupidity,  for  ex- 
ample, sometimes  work  against  his  getting  what  he  wants, 
so  that  he  is,  in  part,  not  on  his  own  side,  but  against  it, 
as  Brutus  is  in  Julius  Coesar  ?  Are  there  other  forces  in 
the  play  besides  the  people —  storm  or  accident  or  fate? 
With  what  side  or  what  character  are  you  in  sympathy? 
Is  this  constant  throughout  the  play,  or  do  you  feel  a 
change  at  some  point  in  it?  Does  the  author  sympathize 
with  any  special  character?  Does  he  have  a  prejudice 
against  any  one  of  them?  For  example,  in  Cam-pbell  of 
Kilmhor,  where  is  your  sympathy?  Where  is  the  author's, 
apparently? 

2.  The  Beginning  and  the  End. 

What  events  important  to  this  play  occurred  before  the 
curtain  rises?  Why  does  the  author  begin  just  here,  and  not 
earlier  or  later?  How  does  he  contrive  to  let  you  know  these 
important  things  without  coming  before  the  curtain  to  an- 
nounce them  himself,  or  having  two  servants  dusting  the 
furniture  and  telling  them  to  each  other? 


282  QUESTIONS  FOR  DISCUSSION 

What  happens  after  the  curtain  falls?  Can  you  go  on 
picturing  these  events?  Are  any  of  them  important  to  the 
story  —  for  instance,  in  The  Beggar  and  the  King  ?  ^^^ly  did 
the  author  stop  before  telling  us  these  things? 

Does  the  ending  satisfy  you?  Even  if  you  do  not  find  it 
happy  and  enjoyable,  dot\s  it  seem  the  natural  and  i)erhaps 
the  inevitable  result  of  the  forces  at  work  —  in  Riders  to  the 
Sea  and  Campbell  of  Kilmhor,  for  instance?  Or  has  the 
author  interfered  to  make  characters  do  what  they  would 
not  naturally  do,  or  used  chance  and  coincidence,  like  the 
accidentally  discovered  will  or  the  long-lost  relative  in 
melodramas,  to  bring  about  a  result  he  prefers  —  a  "happy 
ending,"  or  a  clap-trap  surprise,  or  a  supposed  proof  of  some 
theory  about  politics  or  morals? 

Does  the  interest  mount  steadily  from  beginning  to  end, 
or  docs  it  droop  and  fail  somewhere?  You  may  find  it  in- 
teresting to  try  drawing  the  diagram  of  interest  for  a  play, 
as  suggested  in  chapter  x  of  Dr.  Brandcr  Matthews's 
Study  of  the  Drama,  and  accounting  for  the  drop  in  interest, 
if  you  find  any. 

3.   The  Playicright's  Purpose. 

What  was  the  author  trying  to  do  in  writing  the  play? 
It  may  have  been :  — 

Merely  to  tell  a  gooil  story 

To  ])aint  a  ])icture  of  life  in  the  Arran  Islands  or  in  old 
France  or  in  a  modern  imlustrial  town 

To  show  us  character  and  its  development,  as  in  novels 
like  Thackeray's  and  Eliot's  (Of  course,  brief  jilays 
like  these  cannot  show  development  of  character, 
but  only  critical  jioints  in  such  development  —  the 
result  of  forces  perhajis  long  at  work,  or  the  awaken- 
ing of  new  ideas  and  other  determinants  of  character.) 


QUESTIONS  FOR  DISCUSSION  283 

To  portray  a  social  situation,  such  as  the  relation  be- 
tween workmen  and  employers,  or  between  men  and 
women 
To  show  the  inevitable  effects  of  action  and  motive,  as  of 
the  determined  loyalty  of  Dugald  Stewart  and  his 
mother,  or  the  battle  of  fisher-folk  or  weavers  with 
grinding  poverty 
Of  course,  no  play  will  probably  do  any  one  of  these 
things  exclusively,  but  usually  each  is  concerned  most  with 
some  one  purpose 

What  effect  has  the  play  on  you?  Even  if  its  tragedy  is 
painful  or  its  account  of  human  character  makes  you 
uncomfortable,  is  it  good  for  you  to  realize  these  things,  or 
merely  uselessly  unpleasant?  Is  the  play  stupidly  and 
falsely  cheering  because  it  presents  untrue  "happy  end- 
ings" or  other  distortions  of  things  as  they  are?  Do  you 
think  the  play  has  merely  temporary,  or  genuine  and 
permanent,  appeal? 


NOTES  OX  THE  DRAMAS  AND 

THE  dra:\iatists 

PAGE 

Harold  Ckapin:  The  Philosopher  of  Bctterbiggens    .         1 

Harold  Chapin,  as  we  learn  from  Soldier  and  Dramatist  (Lane, 
1917),  was  an  Ainoricun  hoth  by  ancestry  and  nativity.  But  lie 
lived  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  England,  and  died  for  Englami 
at  Loos  in  Ajjril,  1915.  His  activity  was  always  associated  with 
the  stage.  When  he  was  but  seven  years  old  he  played  tlie  little 
Mareius  to  his  mother's  Volunmia  at  the  Shakespeare  Festival,  at 
Stratford-on-Avon  in  1893.  In  1911  he  produced  Mr.  Harold 
Brighouse's  lyonesomc-Likc  and  several  of  his  own  short  plays  at 
the  Gliusgow  Repertory  Theatre.  For  several  years  before  the  war 
he  was  Mr.  Granville  Barker's  stage  manager,  and  hel|K'd  him  to 
|)roduce  the  beautiful  Shakespearean  plays  at  the  Savoy  Theatre 
in  London. 

Of  Chapin's  own  dramas,  The  New  Morality  and  Art  and  Oppor- 
tunity have  been  given  recently  in  New  York  and  in  Lomlon, 
and  several  of  the  one-act  plays  at  a  memorial  ix-rformance  in 
London  in  19I(i,  in  matinee  at  the  Punch  and  Juily  Theatre,  and 
before  the  Drama  I/C>ague  in  New  York  in  March  and  April,  19-21. 
Of  the  shorter  plays,  mentioned  in  the  bibliographies  following 
tliese  notes,  It  '.-?  the  Poor  thai  'rips  the  Poor,  The  Dumb  and  the 
lilind,  and  The  Philosopher  of  liuttcrhiijtjens  have  bwn  given  the 
highest  praise  by  such  critics  as  Mr.  William  Archer,  who  wrote, 
"NoKnglish-siHjaking  man  of  more  imciuestionable  genius  has 
been  lost  to  the  world  in  this  world-frenzy."  These  true  and 
lionest  dramas  represent  the  English  Repertory  tlieatres  at 
their  lest  in  this  brief  form,  and  give  promise  of  the  great  and 
permanently  iiilcrc-ting  "iiuman  comedy"  which  Chapin  might 
have  completed  had  his  life  not  been  sacrificed.  In  spite  of  the 
simplicity  and  lightness  of  the  little  play  here  given,  tliere  is 
more  shrewd  i)hili)sophy  in  old  David  Pirnie,  and  more  real  hu- 
manity in  his  family,  than  is  to  be  found  portrayed  in  many  pre- 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      285 

tentious  social  dramas  and  diflScult  psychological  novels.  It  is 
admirable  on  the  stage,  as  was  shown  by  the  Provincetown  Play- 
ers last  winter.  In  the  memorial  performance  for  Harold  Chapin 
in  London,  the  author's  little  son  appeared  in  the  part  of  wee 
Alexander, 

"Butterbiggens,"  Mrs.  Alice  Chapin,  the  dramatist's  mother,  replied 
to  an  inquiry  as  to  "what  Butterbiggens  is  or  are,"  "is,  are,  and  always 
will  be  a  suburb  of  Glasgow." 

There  is  little  difficulty  with  the  modified  Scots  dialect  in  this  play  if 
one  remembers  that  ae  generally  takes  the  place  of  such  sounds  as  e  in  tea, 
0  in  so,  a  in  have,  and  so  on,  and  that  a'  means  all.  A  tvean  is  a  small  bairn, 
yinst  is  once,  ava  is  at  all,  and  thrang  is  "thick"  or  intimate. 

Distempered  means  calcimined,  or  painted  in  water-dissolved  color  on 
the  plaster. 

Lady  Gregory:  Spreading  the  News 14 

In  her  notes  on  the  Abbey  Theatre  in  Dublin,  which  she  was 
most  influential  in  building  up,  Lady  Augusta  Gregory  says  that 
it  was  the  desire  of  the  players  and  writers  who  worked  there  to 
establish  an  Irish  drama  which  should  have  a  "firm  base  in  real- 
ity and  an  apex  of  beauty."  This  phrase,  which  admirably  ex- 
presses the  best  in  the  play-making  going  on  to-day,  finds  most 
adequate  illustration  in  the  work  of  Synge,  of  Yeats,  and  of  Lady 
Gregory  herself.  The  basis  in  reality  of  such  jolly  and  robust 
comedies  as  her  Seven  Irish  Plays  and  New  Irish  Comedies  is 
clearly  discernible.  They  are  in  the  tnidition  of  the  best  early 
English  comedy,  from  the  miracle  plays  onward;  of  Hans  Sachs's 
Shrovetide  Plays,  and  of  Moliere's  dramatizations  of  mediaeval 
fabliaux,  as  in  The  Physician  in  Spite  of  Himself.  Lady  Gregory  de- 
scribes in  her  notes  on  Spreading  the  News  how  the  play  grew  out  of 
an  idea  of  picturing  tragic  consequences  from  idle  rumor  and  defa- 
mation of  character.  It  is  certainly  not  to  be  regretted  that  she 
allowed  "laughter  to  have  its  way  with  the  little  play,"  and  gave 
Bartley  Fallon  a  share  of  glory  from  the  woeful  day  to  illuminate 
dull,  older  years. 

The  inhabitants  of  this  same  village  of  Cloon  appear  as  old 
friends  in  other  of  Lady  Gregory's  plays,  with,  as  usual,  nothing 
to  do  but  mind  one  another's  business.  In  The  Jackdaw  another 
absurd  rumor  is  fanned  into  full  blaze  by  greed;  upon  Hyacinth 
Halvey  works  the  potent  and  embarrassing  influence  of  too  good 
a  reputation.  Still  other  plays  attain  a  notable  height  of  beauty 


286      NOTES  ON  DILUL\S  AND  DKUUTISTS 

—  notably  The  Rising  of  the  Moon  and  The  Traveling  Man.  The 
Gaol  Gate  tells  a  story  similar  to  that  of  Campbell  of  Kilmhor, 
with  genuinely  tragic  effect.  She  has  written,  besides,  two  vol- 
umes of  Irish  folk-history,  Gods  and  Fighting  Men  and  Cuchidain 
of  Muirihcmne,  which  Mr.  Yeats  calls  masterpieces  of  prose 
which  one  "can  weigh  with  Malory  and  feel  no  discontent  at  the 
tallj'."^  A  writer  who  has  pro<luced  such  range  and  beauty  of 
works,  from  very  human,  characteristic  cometly  and  farce  to  fine, 
poignant  tragedy,  besides  writing  excellent  stories  and  contribu- 
ting largely  to  an  imporUmt  experimental  theatre,  is  secure  of  her 
share  of  fame. 

The  "Removable  Magistrate"  is  apparently  one  appointed  by  British 
ofBcialdoni;  this  one,  having  just  come  from  the  Ray  of  Bengal,  is  going  to 
fit  upon  the  natives  of  Cloon  methods  which  may  have  worked  in  a  rather 
different  district. 

The  song  "with  a  skin  on  it,"  which  Barlley  sings,  is  given  in  Lady 
Gregory's  Seven  Short  Playg  (Putnam,  1909). 

Winthrop  Parkhurst:  The  Begg.vr  .vnd  the  King  34 

The  Beggar  and  the  King  looks  at  first  like  a  pleasant  absurdity; 
it  is  in  reality  valuable  ns  a  sliDrt  history  of  the  ostrich  method  of 
dealing  with  realities.  The  beggar,  of  course,  continues  to  cry  aloud 
after  his  tongue,  and  even  his  heail,  have  been  removed,  because 
there  are  so  many  millions  of  him.  Again  and  again,  in  the  course 
of  history,  he  has  gathered  <lesj)erate  courage  to  defy  authority 
that  is  blind  and  evil.  Always  at  la^st,  as  in  the  French  and  the 
Russian  revolutions  and  in  the  more  nx-entEuroi>ean  revolts,  he 
succeeds  in  wresting  the  power  from  those  in  autocratic  author- 
ity. And  yet,  just  as  of  ol<l,  not  only  kings,  but  all  others  who  at- 
tempt dictatorship  and  the  playing  of  providence,  try  the  simple 
tactics  of  the  ostrich;  they  close  the  window,  or  their  eyes  and 
ears,  as  a  suflieient  answer  to  rebellion.  Appreciating  the  futility 
of  these  nietho<ls,  we  have  no  difficulty  in  continuing  tlie  drama 
ourselves  beyond  the  fall  of  the  curUiin. 

Mr.  Winthrop  rarkluirst,  by  birth  a  New  Yorker,  according  to 
a  family  tradition  is  a  descx'ndant  on  his  mother's  side  of  John 
Huss,  the  Bohemian  n^former  and  martyr,  and  t)n  his  father's  of 
tlu'  executioner  of  Charles  I  of  England.  His  writings  include 
Maracca,  a  I3il>lieal  one-act  play,  and  several  short  satircial 
sketches. 

'  .\l)pondix  to  The  Poetical  Works  of  ll'Uliam  D.  Yeats,  volume  ii, 
(Mucmillun.  1012). 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      287 

George  Middleton :  Tides 45 

Mr.  George  Middleton  generally  pictures  in  his  dramas  prob- 
lems which  are  not  easy  to  solve.  And  he  does  not  try  to  give 
ready-made  solutions.  He  merely  shows  us  how  various  people 
have  tried  to  work  these  problems;  and  his  dramas  are  like  real 
life  because  tlie  attempts  at  solutions  fail  as  often  as  they  suc- 
ceed. Certain  of  the  problems  Mr.  Middleton  presents  are  such  as 
high-school  students  meet  and  can  well  consider;  several  of  these 
plays  appear  in  the  lists  following.  Tides  is  about  a  man  who  has 
supported  an  unpopular  theory.  Nothing  is  said  about  whether 
his  ideal  is  right  or  wrong,  but  it  is  clear  that  he  has  held  to  it  in 
perfect  sincerity  of  belief  and  has  been  quite  unmoved  by  the 
bitterest  persecution.  But  when  he  is  offered  honor  and  flattering 
respect,  though  he  does  not  really  change  his  belief  and  adherence, 
he  compromises  and  partially  surrenders  his  ideal.  The  fable  is 
similar  to  that  of  Ibsen's  The  League  of  Youth,  but  the  telling  here 
is  straighter  and  clearer.  William  White's  self-dece()tion  is  made 
evident  to  him  and  to  us  by  his  honest  and  courageous  wife,  who 
tells  him  frankly  of  it.  "Have  n't  you  sometimes  noticed  that  is 
what  bitterness  to  another  means:  a  failure  within  oneself?"  she 
comments  wisely.  An  effective  contrast  is  furnished  by  the  son, 
who  has  altogether  and  honestly  abandoned  his  father's  theories 
in  the  face  of  new  realities  as  he  sees  them. 

Eugene  O'Neill:  Ile 64 

Eugene  O'Neill,  American  seaman,  laborer,  newspaperman, 
and  dramatist,  has  been  associated  for  several  years  with  the 
Provincetown  Players.  This  group,  including  Mrs.  Glaspell 
and  other  playwrights  of  importance,  gather  in  Provincetown, 
on  Cape  Cod,  during  the  summer,  and  in  winter  present  signifi- 
cant foreign  and  native  plays  in  a  converted  stable  on  Mac- 
dougall  Street  in  New  York,  where  may  be  seen  the  ring  to 
which  Pegasus  was  once  tethered!  In  1919  Mr.  O'Neill  received 
the  Pulitzer  Prize  for  the  most  important  American  play  of  the 
year. 

Mr.  O'Neill  has  had  experience  of  the  sea,  like  the  great  Eng- 
lishmen, Mr.  Masefield  and  Mr.  Joseph  Conrad.  He  knows  the 
interminable  whaling  voyages,  as  described  in  Melville's  Moby 
Dick  and  the  first  chapter  of  Typee  —  best  of  all  in  Bullen's  Cruise 
oj  the  Cachalot.  Out  of  this  experience  of  hard  life  and  harder  men 


288      NOTES  ON  DRA^LVS  .VND  DRA^L\TISTS 

he  has  written  many  poignant  and  terrible  dramas  —  perhaps  the'; 
greatest  this  story  of  the  skipper's  wife  who  insisted  on  making  the 
voyage  with  her  husl)and  and  is  worn  to  the  edge  of  insanity  by 
montlis  of  ice-bound  sohtufle.  The  motive  of  Ca{)tuin  Keeney  is 
like  that  which  caused  Skipper  Ireson  to  leave  his  fellow  towns- 
men to  sink  in  Chaleur  Bay.  Against  his  iron  determination  his 
wife's  piteous  pleading  and  evident  suffering  are  more  potent  than 
the  mutinying  hands;  whether  she  can  avail  to  turn  him  home 
"  with  a  measly  four  hundred  barrel  of  ile"  is  the  problem  of  the 
play. 


J.  A.  Ferguson:  Campbell,  of  Kilmhor       ....      84 

This  tragic  story  of  the  war  ami  hatred  in  Scotland  belongs  in 
the  scries  of  attt'iiii)ts  made  by  Charles  Edward  Stuart  and  his 
father  to  regain  the  throne  lust  by  James  II  in  1088.  "The  Young 
Pretender's"  vigorous  campaign  in  1745,  carried  far  into  England, 
might  easily  have  succeeded  but  for  the  quarrels  and  disaffection 
of  the  Highland  chiefs  wlio  supported  him.  His  failure  wjis  com- 
pleted at  the  bloody  battle  of  CulKxlen,  or  Drumossie  Moor,  in 
1746,  celebrated  in  Scottish  story  and  song  of  lamentiition. 
Scott's  hero  Waverley  went  into  the  highland  country  slu)rtly  after 
these  uprisings,  and  David  Balfour,  in  Kidnajypcd,  \\iid  numerous 
adventures  in  crossing  it  with  Allan  Breck  Stewart,  who  was  in 
the  service  of  his  kinsmen,  the  exiled  Stuarts.  The  hatred  of  Camp- 
liells  and  Stuarts,  of  Lowlander  and  Highlander,  Loyalist  and 
Jacobite,  is  intense  throughout  the  record  of  those  days. 

The  young  Scot  and  liis  stanch  and  proudly  tearless  mother  are, 
of  course,  the  heroic  characters  in  the  play.  We  have  a  hint  that 
("liarles  Edward  Stuart  himself  is  with  the  band  whom  the  yoimg 
man  protects  so  loyally.  It  may  seem  strange  that  the  ilrama  is 
named,  not  for  him,  l)iit  for  the  crafty  and  pitiless  executioner  of 
the  king's  justice.  But  he  is  after  all  the  most  interesting  charac- 
ter in  the  piece,  with  his  Bililital  references  in  broad  Lowland 
Scots  (we  nuiy  suppose  that  the  Stewarts  speak  Gaelic  among 
themselves),  his  superstition,  his  remorseless  cruelty.  We  should 
like  to  sec  how  he  takes  the  discovery  that,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time,  he  has  been  baflled  in  his  career  of  unscrupulous  and  bloody 
deeds! 

This  play  represents  the  most  successful  work  of  the  Chusgow 
Ilcpertory  Theatre  in  11)11.    The  author  has  written  uo  others 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      289 

which  have  been  published,  though  he  is  credited  with  a  good 
story  or  two.  It  may  be  hoped  that  he  will  write  other  dramas  as 
excellent  as  this  one.  He  has  put  into  very  brief  and  eflFective  form 
here  the  spirit  and  idea  of  a  most  intense  period  of  merciless 
conflict. 

A  kebbuck  is  a  cheese;  keek  means  peek;  loom,  empty;  a  besom,  a  broom; 
and  soop,  sweep. 

John  Galsworthy:  The  Sun 100 

According  to  Professor  Lewisohn  and  other  critics  Mr.  Gals- 
worthy is  without  question  the  foremost  English  dramatist  to-day. 
Without  arguing  or  attempting  to  offer  solutions,  he  gives  the 
most  searching  presentation  of  problems  which  we  have  to  face 
and  somehow  settle.  In  Strife,  after  a  furious  contest  and  bitter 
hardships,  the  strike  is  settled  by  a  compromise  which  the  leaders 
of  both  sides  count  as  failure.  Things  are  much  as  they  were  at 
the  start;  the  difficulty  is  no  nearer  solution.  In  Justice,  "society 
stamps  out  a  human  life  not  without  its  fair  possibilities  —  for 
eighty-one  pounds,"  because  obviously  clear  and  guilty  infrac- 
tion of  law  cannot  go  unavenged.  Justice  is  not  condemned  by  the 
facts  showTi  in  this  play,  nor  is  its  working  extolled.  In  The  Mob, 
the  patrioteering  element  destroys  a  man  who  proclaims  the  in- 
justice of  a  small  and  greedy  war  of  conquest.  In  The  Pigeon, 
brilliant  debate  is  held,  but  no  conclusion  reached,  as  to  what  we 
should  do  with  derelict  and  wasted  lives,  with  men  who  do  not  fit 
into  the  scheme  of  success  and  society. 

In  his  sketches  and  stories  Mr.  Galsworthy  presents  these  same 
problems,  and  again  without  attempted  conclusions.  The  Free- 
lands  particularly  is  a  most  dramatic  novel  of  conditions  and 
results  similar  to  those  in  some  of  the  dramas  mentioned  above. 
Many  of  his  sketches  and  essays  also  —  for  example,  "My  Dis- 
tant Relative"  in  The  Inn  of  Tranquillity  and  "Comfort"  in 
A  Commentary  —  are  of  biting  and  almost  cynical  irony  in  view- 
ing proposed  and  present  solutions  of  problems;  but  none  suggest 
panaceas.  They  merely  make  us  think  soberly  of  the  size  of  our 
problems  and  their  immense  complexity,  move  us  to  go  out  to  look 
for  more  information  and  to  examine  carefully  our  most  solid  in- 
stitutions as  well  as  suggested  alterations  in  them. 

A  large  part  of  Mr.  Galsworthy's  time  and  thought,  both  during 
the  war  and  since,  has  been  given  to  the  problem  of  some  measure 

20 


290      NOTES  OX  DRAMAS  AND  DRA^L\TISTS 

of  justice  to  soldiers,  and  particularly  to  wounded  and  broken 
soldiers.  In  A  Sheaf  and  Another  Sheaf  appear  various  papers 
presenting  sharply  the  conditions  of  suffering  and  neglect  that 
actually  cxiat.  The  Sun  is  a  brief  sketch  of  after-war  days,  —  this 
time  of  a  wounded  man  who  has  gained  an  advantage  over  one 
who  escaped  injury,  — ami  of  joy  in  deliverance  from  the  hell  of 
war  —  a  joy  so  profound  and  luminous  that  the  released  soldier 
cannot  let  a  sharp  mischance  and  disappointment  mar  his  happi- 
ness. The  whole  piece  is  in  the  key  of  Captain  Sassoon's  verses 
after  the  Armistice :  — 

"Every  one  suddenly  burst  out  singing." 

The  other  two  think  the  happy  soMier  mad.  We  are  left  wonder- 
ing what  the  reaetion  will  be  from  this  height  of  joyful  release  to 
the  harsh  and  sombre  conditions  of  workingmen's  life  after  the 
peace. 

The  ailcer  badge  represents  a  discharge  for  wounds.  Crumps  are,  of 
course,  shells. 

Louise  Saunders:  The  Knave  of  Hearts  ....     107 

The  Knave  of  Hearts  is  one  of  the  happy  tradition  of  puppet- 
plays,  which  come  down  in  unbroken  line  from  the  most  ancient 
history,  through  the  illustrious  Dr.  Faustus  and  Mr.  Punch,  to 
new  and  even  greater  favor  and  fame  to-«lay.  For  just  as  the 
ancient  puppct-.shows  of  Italy  and  England  seemed  to  be  losing 
ground  before  the  moving-pieture  invasion,  they  have  l>een  heroic- 
ally rescued  by  Mr.  T»)ny  Surg,  —  whose  performance  of  Thack- 
eray's The  Rose  and  the  Ring  is  perfectly  absurd  and  captivating, 
—  and  by  other  excellent  arti.sts. 

Puppet-.shows  are  delightful  because  they  are  easily  maile  and 
quite  convincing.  Very  good  ones  have  been  improviseil  even  by 
liny  children,  with  a  pasteboard  suit-l)<)X  opening  to  the  front,  a 
slit  at  the  top  to  let  down  paper-<loll  aetors  on  a  thread,  a  bit  of 
scenery,  outdoors  or  in,  drawn  as  background,  and  a  showman  to 
tiilk  for  all  the  characters.  Still  better  pup{K«t3  are  «loll  heads  and 
arms  of  various  .sort.s,  dressed  in  (lowing  robes  and  provi.led  with 
holes  for  two  fingers  an<l  a  thumb  of  the  operator,  who  moves 
them  from  below.  They  can  l>c  made  to  danee  and  antic  as  you 
like  on  a  stage  above  the  showman's  head,  as  Punch  and  Juily 
have  alwavs  done.    The  more  elaborate  marionettes  arc  worked 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      291 

with  strings  from  above,  so  that  they  can  open  and  close  their 
mouths  and  otherwise  act  most  reahstically;  these  are,  of  course, 
more  difficult,  but  quite  possible  to  make.  In  such  simple  theatres, 
Goethe  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  and  many  other  famous 
people  played  themselves  endless  stories.  If  you  want  to  pursue 
this  idea  further,  a  list  of  references  below  (p.  323)  gives  you 
opportunity  for  all  the  information  you  like  about  marionettes 
and  puppets. 

The  Knave  of  Hearts  is  charming,  either  as  a  puppet-play  or,  as  a 
class  in  junior  high  school  gave  it  recently,  a  "legitimate  drama." 
The  remarks  of  the  manager  are  all  the  funnier  when  applied  to 
real  characters.  The  play  explains  clearly  the  reasons  for  the 
strange  behavior  of  a  respectable  nursery  character.  It  is  to  be 
published  soon  in  a  book  of  its  own  with  illustrations  by  Mr.  Max- 
field  Parrish  (Scribner's).  The  author  has  written  other  plays  and 
stories,  some  of  which  you  may  have  seen  in  St.  Nichohis,  and  also 
a  pleasant  operetta,  with  music  by  Alice  Terhune  —  The  Wood- 
land Princess,  listed  in  the  bibliography  following.  She  is  also  an 
actress  with  the  New  York  Comedy  Club,  an  excellent  amateur 
organization. 

Pompdebile's  coat  of  arms,  with  a  heart  rampant  (i.e.,  standing  on  its 
hind  legs,  however  that  may  be  accomplished),  reminds  one  of  the  arms 
suggested  for  the  old  clergyman-scholar,  Mr.  Casaubon,  in  George  Eliot's 
Middlemarch  —  "three  cuttlefish  sable  and  a  commentator  rampant." 

Lord  Dunsany:  Fame  and  the  Poet 134 

Lord  Dunsany  (Edward  Moreton  Max  Plunkett),  the  eight- 
eenth baron  of  his  name,  is  the  author  of  a  number  of  stories  and 
plays  unique  in  their  type  of  clever  imaginativeness.  Besides  the 
inimitable  Five  Plays  and  other  dramas  listed  in  the  bibliography, 
his  best  writings  are  to  be  found  in  Fifty-One  Tales,  which  in- 
cludes "The  Hen,"  "Death  and  Odysseus,"  "The  True  Story  of 
the  Hare  and  the  Tortoise,"  and  other  highly  entertaining  mat- 
ters. Fame  and  the  Poet,  originally  published  in  the  Atlantic,  has 
been  recently  produced  with  good  effect  by  the  Harvard  Dra- 
matic Club.  Fame's  startling  revelation  to  her  faithful  wor- 
shiper of  her  real  nature  and  attributes  is  naturally  most  distress- 
ing —  even  more  so,  perhaps,  than  the  rendezvous  which  this 
same  goddess  appointed  another  poet,  in  the  Fifty-One  Tales: 
"  In  the  cemetery  back  of  the  workhouse,  after  a  hundred  years." 


292      NOTES  OX  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS 

Lord  Dunsany  was  a  captain  in  the  First  Royal  Iniskilling 
Fusilcers  —  a  regiment  mentioned  in  Sheridan's  Saint  Patriclc's 
Day  —  and  saw  service  in  Syria  and  the  Near  E;ust  as  well  as  on 
the  western  front.  He  was  wounded  on  April  25,  1916,  in  Flan- 
ders. Since  the  war  he  hiis  visited  the  United  States  and  seen  a 
performance  of  his  Tents  of  the  Arabs  at  the  Neighborhood  Play- 
house, New  York  City. 

Beulah  Marie  Dix:  The  Capt.un  of  the  Gate  lli 

Miss  Dix  is  author  of  several  plays  —  in  addition  to  those 
from  Allison's  Lad  incliidc<l  in  the  play-Iist,  of  Across  the  Border, 
and,  with  the  late  Evelyn  Greenleaf  Sutliorland,  of  the  frequently 
acted  Rose  of  Plymouth  Town.  She  has  also  written  several  favor- 
ite historical  stories,  including  Merrylips.  The  Captain  of  the 
Gate  is  a  tragedy  of  Cromwell's  nithless  devastation  of  Ireland. 
The  determined  and  heroic  captain  surrenders,  to  face  an  igno- 
minious death,  to  keep  his  word  and  ensure  delaying  the  advance 
of  tlie  enemy  upon  an  unprepare(l  countrysi<ie,  and  his  courage 
inspires  exhausted  and  failing  men  to  like  heroism.  This  is  an 
effective  piece  of  dramatic  presentation. 

Percy  Mackaye:  Gettysburg 100 

Mr.  Percy  Mackaye  h;is  heen  most  active  in  the  movement  for 
a  community  theatre  in  the  rnitetl  St^ites  and  for  tlie  revival  of 
pageantry.  lie  contends  riulitly  that  this  development  mi;;ht  Ik- 
one  of  the  strongest  possible  inlluences  for  true  Americanism, 
and  his  dramatic  work  luus  all  been  dirciled  toward  such  a 
theatre.  Most  notidile  are  his  pageants  and  masques,  particu- 
larly Caliban  by  the  Ycllmc  Sands,  for  the  Shakesix>arc  Tercenten- 
ary; his  play  The  Scarecrow,  a  lively  dratnatiz^ition  of  Haw- 
thorne's Feathertop;  his  ojwra  Hip  van  ll'inkle,  for  which  Reg- 
inald De  Koven  composed  music;  and  The  Canterbury  Pilgrims, 
in  which  the  Wife  of  Hath  is  the  heroine  of  further  roliustious 
adventures.  IMr.  Mackaye  is  also  translator,  \\ilh  Professor  Tab- 
lcx"k,  of  the  Modern  Header's  Chaucer.  Tiio  little  sketch  presented 
here  is  taken  from  a  volume  of  Yankee  Fanta.fies,  in  wliiih  various 
observations  of  past  and  present  New  England  life  are  reconled. 
Stephen  Crani-'s  The  lied  Badge  of  Courage,  a  powerfid  story  of 
the  Civil  War,  is  a  most  excellent  help  to  realizing  what  the  boy 
Ligc  really  cmlunxl  iu  those  days  of  battle. 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      293 

Mr.  Mackaye  has  adopted  here  a  regularly  rhythmic  verse 
without  the  conventional  capital  letters  at  the  beginnings  of  lines 
—  perhaps  to  typify  the  simple  homeliness  of  the  talk. 

Harold  Brighome:  Lonesome-Like 177 

Mr.  Brighouse  has  been  best  represented  in  this  country  by  an 
excellent  comedy,  Hobsons  Choice,  which  was  widely  played  and 
was  printed  in  the  Drama  League  series  of  plays  (1906).  His 
other  best-known  work  here  is  the  present  play,  and  The  Price  of 
Coal  (1909),  a  picturing  of  the  hard  life  of  miners'  wives  and  their 
Spartan  firmness  in  expectation  of  fatal  accidents.  He  has  pro- 
duced and  published  a  number  of  other  plays,  among  them  those 
listed  in  the  bibliography.  Mr.  Brighouse  represents  in  this  vol- 
ume the  work  of  the  English  Repertory  theatres,  which  parallel 
the  Abbey  Theatre  in  Dublin,  the  Glasgow  Repertory  Theatre, 
and  various  European  stage-societies.  That  at  Manchester,  witli 
which  he  has  been  associated,  is  directed  by  Miss  Isabel  Horni- 
man,  has  seen  beautiful  stage-settings  designed  by  Mr.  Robert 
Bume-Jones,  and  counts  among  its  dramatists  such  well-known 
men  as  Messrs.  Allan  Monkhouse,  author  of  Mary  Broome,  a 
sombre  and  powerful  tragedy;  Stanley  Houghton,  and  Gilbert 
Cannan.  The  Liverpool  Theatre  has  become  even  more  famous 
through  the  dramatic  work  of  Mr.  John  Drinkwater.  The  Little 
Theatre  movement  in  this  country,  our  Drama  League,  and  the 
various  dramatic  societies  in  our  colleges  and  cities  are  our  near- 
est parallel  to  these  repertory  theatres. 

Lonesome-Like,  Mr.  Brighouse's  most  effective  short  play,  is 
written  in  a  modified  Lancashire  dialect,  the  speech  of  the  village 
weavers  and  spinners.  Many  of  the  words  are  English  of  Eliza- 
bethan days  and  earlier,  derived  mostly  from  Anglo-Saxon. 

Gradely  (graithly)  means  willingly,  meekly  or  decently;  clem  means 
starve;  sithee  is  see  you  or  look  you;  clogs  are  shoes  with  wooden  soles 
and  leather  uppers,  and  dungarees,  garments  of  coarse  cotton  cloth  rather 
like  overalls.  A  is  used  throughout  for  I. 

As  in  many  English  stories,  an  extreme  and  painful  dread  of  the 
workus,  or  poorhouse,  provides  a  strong  motive  force. 

John  Millington  Synge:  Riders  to  the  Sea      .        .        .197 

The  work  of  the  Irish  Renaissance  in  the  Abbey  Theatre  in 
Dublin  reached  its  most  powerful  and  tragic  height  in  this  trag- 


294      NOTES  OX  DRAMAS  AND  DRA^L\TISTS 

edy,  wliich  Mr.  Yeuts  compared  to  the  Antigone  and  (Edipus  of 
Sophocles.  Synge  at  first  wandered  about  Europe,  poetizing;  it 
Wiis  Yeats  who  l)rought  liiin  hack  to  study  and  embo<iy  in  genuine 
Hterature  tlie  poetry  of  hfe  among  his  own  people.  On  the  bleak 
Arran  Islands  he  lived  in  a  fisherman's  cottage,  and  through  tlie 
floor  of  his  room  heard  the  dialect  which  he  presents  in  simple  and 
poignant  beauty  in  this  drama  of  hopeless  struggle.  Tlie  "sec- 
ond sight"  —  called  "the  gift"  in  Campbell  of  Kilmltur,  and 
an  incident  also  in  The  Riding  to  Lithtnd  —  was  a  sort  of 
prophetic  vision  altogether  credited  among  Celtic  peoples,  as 
among  those  of  Scott's  Lady  of  the  Lake.  When  the  mother  sees  the 
"riders  to  the  sea,"  —  her  drowned  son  and  her  living  son  riding 
together,  —  she  feels  convinced  tliat  he  must  soon  die.  The  sharp 
cries  of  her  grief  and,  above  all,  the  peace  of  her  resignation  at  the 
end,  after  all  hope  is  gone,  make  this,  as  a  writer  in  tlie  Manches- 
ter Guardian  is  quoted  as  calling  it,  "  the  tragic  masterpiece  of  our 
language  in  our  time;  wherever  it  has  been  in  Europe,  from  Gal- 
way  to  Prague,  it  h;is  made  tlic  word  tragedy  mean  something 
more  profoundly  stirring  and  cleansing  to  the  spirit  than  it  did." 

The  speech  of  the  people  is  not  difficult  to  understand  when  you 
master  a  few  of  its  peculiarities.  One  is  the  omission  of  words  we 
generally  include,  as  in.  "Is  n't  it  a  hard  and  cruel  man  (who)  won't 
hear.  ..."  Another  is  the  common  form  "It  was  crying  I  Wius." 
A  few  phrases,  like  what  tcay  for  how,  the  way  for  so  that,  in  it  for 
here  or  near,  and  itself  ior  even,  or  with  no  particular  meaning,  as 
"^Vllere  is  he  itself?"  The  meanings  of  other  worIs  will  l)c  easily 
untangled. 

William  B idler  Yeats:  The  L.vnd  of  Heart's  Desire  ill 

Mr.  Yeats 's  best  poetic  dramas,  and  particularly  this  one,  re- 
present beyond  cjuestion  that  "apex  of  l)eauty"  to  which  I^idy 
Gregory  spoke  of  the  Abln-y  Theatre  dramatists  as  aspiring.  This 
play  is  not  founded  on  any  parlicidar  Irish  ft)lk-tale.  It  is  filled 
with  the  half-dread,  half-envy  with  which  the  tellers  of  Irish 
legends  seem  to  regard  the  fate  of  mortals  Ixnviti-hed  by  the 
Leprechaun  or  Gotxi  People.  It  is  rich,  too,  with  the  music  of 
beautiful  words,  without  which,  Mr.  Yeats  contends  no  play  can 
be  "of  a  great  kind."  He  says  t<M),  "There  is  no  poem  so  great 
that  a  flue  s|)eaker  cannot  make  it  greater,  or  that  a  bad  ear  can- 
not nuike  it  nothing." 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      295 

Mr.  Yeats  has  written  broad  comedy  like  Synge's  Shadow  of  the 
Glen  and  Lady  Gregory's  Iruh  Comedies;  his  Pot  of  Broth  is  a  most 
clever  retelling  of  an  old,  comical  tale.  But  it  is  by  his  mystical  and 
poetical  plays  that  he  would  be  judged  as  playwright  and  poet  — 
particularly  Deirdre,  which  should  be  compared  with  Synge's 
Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows;  The  Unicorn  of  the  Stars,  written  in  collabora- 
tion with  Lady  Gregory;  Cathleen  Ni  Hoolihan,  a  dramatization  of 
the  spirit  of  Ireland;  The  King's  Threshold,  a  high  glorification  of 
the  poet's  art,  with  a  fable,  based  on  an  ancient  Celtic  rite,  of  the 
hunger  strike;  and  The  Land  of  Heart's  Desire,  most  beautifully 
perfect  of  all. 

Gordon  Bottomley:  The  Riding  to  Lithend  .  .  .  236 
J/i.. «« y^g  Riding  to  Lithend  is  an  Icelandic  play  taken  out  of  the 
noblest  of  the  Sagas,"  wrote  Mr.  Lascelles  Abercrombie  in  his 
review  of  the  published  drama  in  1909.  "[It]  is  a  fight,  one  of  the 
greatest  fights  in  legend.  .  .  .  The  subject  is  stirring,  and  Mr. 
Bottomley  takes  it  into  a  very  high  region  of  poetry,  giving  it  a 
purport  beyond  that  of  the  original  teller  of  the  tale.  .  .  .  [The 
play]  is  not  a  representation  of  life;  it  is  a  symbol  of  life.  In  it  life 
is  entirely  fermented  into  rhythm,  by  which  we  mean  not  only 
rhythm  of  words,  but  rhythm  of  outline  also;  the  beauty  and  im- 
pressiveness  of  the  play  do  not  depend  only  on  the  subject,  the 
diction,  and  the  metre,  but  on  the  fact  that  it  has  distinct  and 
most  evident  form,  in  the  musician's  sense  of  the  word.  It  is  one 
of  those  plays  that  reach  the  artist's  ideal  condition  of  music,  in 
,    fact." 

^/  This  is  high  praise ;  but  who,  af t^r  studying  the  play,  will  doubt 
that  it  is  deserved?  The  powerfully  moving  events  of  the  story 
indeed  lead  up  to  the  climax  in  a  forthright  and  exciting  manner. 
The  terror  of  the  house-women  and  the  thrall,  the  fearful  love  of 
Gunnar's  mother  Rannveig,  and  the  caution  of  Kolskegg  his 
brother,  who  "sailed  long  ago  and  far  away  from  us  "  in  obedience 
to  the  doom  or  sentence  of  the  Thing  —  all  these  bring  out  sharply 
the  quite  reckless  daring  of  Gunnar  himself,  who  braves  the  de- 
cree. A  mysterious  and  epic  touch  is  added  by  the  three  ancient 
hags  —  evidently  of  these  minor  Norns  who  watch  over  mdividual 
destinies  and  annoimce  the  irrevocable  doom  of  the  gods.  It  was 
Hallgerd  who  broke  their  thread,  representing,  of  course,  Gunnar's 
span  of  life. 


f,  .     296      NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRA^UTISTS 

The  centre  of  interest,  as  well  as  the  spring  of  the  action,  is 
clearly  Hullgcrd,  descendaiit  of  Sigurd  Fafiiin»lmne  and  of 
Brj-nhild  — 

...  a  hazardous  desirable  thing, 

A  warm  iinsf)Uiidcd  i)cril,  a  (lashing  mischii-f, 

A  divine  malice,  a  disquieting  voice. 

She,  and  not  any  superstitious  belief  in  "second-sight"  and  death 
decreed,  is  the  cause  of  Gunnar's  reniuiuing  outlawed.  She  wran- 
gles about  the  headdress,  not  because  she  particularly  wants  it, 
but  to  send  her  husl)and  on  a  perilous  mission  to  secure  it. 
She  says  openly  that  she  has  "set  men  at  him  to  show  fortli  his 
might  .  .  .  planned  thefts  and  breakings  of  his  word  "  to  stir  him 
to  battle.  Mr.  Abercrombie  believes  tliat  "  She  loves  her  husband 
Gunnar,  but  she  refuses  to  give  him  any  help  in  his  last  fight,  in 
order  that  she  may  see  him  fight  better  and  fiercer."  AVe  slioidd, 
then,  have  to  suppose  that  her  amazing  speech  at  his  death  — 

O  clear  sweet  laughter  of  my  heart,  (low  out! 

It  is  so  mighty  and  beautiful  and  blithe 

To  watch  a  man  dying  —  to  hover  and  watch  — 

is  not  for  the  blow  Gunnar  had  given  her  when  she  "planned  thefts 
and  breakings  of  his  word,"  but  is  rather,  ns  the  lines  powerfully 
indicate,  the  exultation  of  a  descendant  of  tlie  Valkyrie  watching 
above  the  battlefielils. 

Really  poetical  plays  —  plays  which  are  both  poetic  and 
strongly  I  Iranialic — are  indcx^-d  exceedingly  rare.  Mr.  Bottoniley  is 
one  of  the  few  who  have  produced  such  drama  in  English.  For 
many  years  he  printed  his  work  i)rivately,  in  IxMutiful  editit)ns 
for  his  friends;  but  of  late  .several  of  the  plays  have  been  made 
available  —  Kinij  lAais  Wife  in  (icnnjian  Vodrij,  1 !) I :?- 1 .") .  and  in 
n  Volume  of  the  same  title,  including  Midsummer  Eve  and  The 
Hiding  to  Lithcnd,  publislied  in  Ixmdon  hist  year. 

Those  who  want  more  stories  of  tliis  sort  will  find  them  in 
ThoTijils  and  other  Icelandic  stories  moderni/.cd  by  Mr.  Hewlett; 
in  the  /)i/r?)/.Vj(;/, translated  bySirGenrgcDasent.from  wliith  this 
story  it.st'lf  springs;  and  in  the  translations  by  Eirikr  Magnusson 
and  William  Morris,  the  Siuja  Library  —  particularly  the  stories 
of  the  Volsungs  and  Nibclungs,  ami  of  Cirettir  the  Strong. 


NOTES  ON  DRAMAS  AND  DRAMATISTS      297 

louvre  —  a  smoke-hole  in  the  roof  i 

thrall  —  a  captive  or  serf 

bill  —  a  battle-ax  ' 

second  sight  —  prophetic  vision,  as  in  Riders  to  the  Sea  and  Campbell  of 

Kilmhor  j 

fetch  —  one's  double;  seeing  it  is  supposed  to  be  a  sign  that  one  is  fey  or  f 

fated  to  die  : , 

wimpled  —  "  clouted  up,"  as  Hallgerd  expresses  it,  in  a  headdress  rather  P 

like  a  nun's.  A  widow,  apparently,  might  wear  her  hair  uncovered  i} 

byre  —  cow-barn 
midden  —  manure 
quean  —  in  Middle-English,  a  jade;  in  Scotch,  a  healthy  lass;  the  history  ' 

of  this  word  and  of  queen,  which  come  from  the  same  root,  is  strange 

and  interesting 
ambry  —  press 

Romeborg  —  Rome;  Mickligarth  —  Constantinople  (Viking  names) 
Athcliath  —  evidently  an  Irish  port 
mumpers  —  beggars 
Markfleet  —  a  fleet  in  an  inlet  of  the  sea 
mote  or  gemote  —  a  formal  assembly  for  making  laws 
thing  —  assembly  for  judgment,  or  parliament;  this  is  an  early  Icelandic 

meaning  of  the  word  thing 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  OF  PLAYS  FOR  READ- 
ING IX  HIGH  SCHOOLS 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich 

Mercedes:  A  tragic  story  of  the  inextinguishable  hatreds  and  repris- 
als of  the  French  invasion  of  Spain  in  1810,  and  of  a  woman's  terrible 
lieroism. 

In  Collected  Works,  Houghton  MiflBin. 

Pauline  Pavlo\'na:  Cleverly  executed,  slight  plot  in  dialogue, 
wherein  the  character  of  the  hero  is  sharply  revealed;  reminiscent  of 
Browning's  In  a  Balcony,  though  with  a  quite  different  scheme. 

Ibid. 

Mary  Austin 

The  Arrow-Maker:  The  tragedy  of  a  noble  medicine-woman  of  a 
lril>e  of  California  Indians,  and  of  a  weak  and  selfish  cliief. 
DufBeld. 

Granville  Barker 

Rococo:  In  which  we  discover  a  clergyman  and  his  relatives  in  physi- 
cal altercation  over  a  rococo  vase,  and  follow  their  dispute  to  a  determina- 
tive conclusion. 

Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London. 

Vote  dt  Ballot:  A  drama  of  English  elections  and  the  forces  in- 
volved. 

Sidgwick  and  Jack.son. 

The  V'oysey  Inhkritanci::  The  inheritance  is  a  dishonored  name  and 
(I  dislionest  bjisincs.s. 

In  Three  Plays,  Sidgwick  and  Jackson. 

Granville  Barker  and  Dion  Calthorpe 

Harlequinape:  It.s  dovclopnient  from  llic  days  of  rcr^eplione,  Mo- 
mus,  nnd  Charon  is  displayed  and  explained  by  Alice  and  her  uncle. 
Sidgwick  aud  Jackson. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  299 

James  Barrie 

The  Admir.\ble  Ceichton  :  In  the  struggle  for  existence  on  a  desert 
island,  the  family  butler  provides  the  brains  and  safety  for  an  English  fam- 
ily ;  the  party  is  then  rescued,  and  retiu-ns  to  the  impeccable  conventions 
of  London. 

Scribner's,  New  York;  Hodder  and  Stoughton,  London. 

Alice  Sit-bt-the  FraE:  A  mother  with  keen  insight  and  a  delightful 
sense  of  humor  has  to  deal  with  a  serious  attack  of  romantic  imagination  in 
her  very  young  daughter,  who  feels  responsible  for  the  conduct  of  the 
family. 

Scribner's;  Hodder  and  Stoughton. 

The  Old  Lady  Shows  Her  Medals:  Mrs.  Dowie,  a  charwoman  who 
has  resorted  to  desperate  remedies  in  order  to  have  some  part  in  the 
war,  goes  through  an  agonizing  crisis  of  exposure,  into  real  joy  and  sharp 
sorrow.  The  rich  humor  of  the  characters  makes  this  quite  unique  among 
plaj's  of  its  type. 

In  Echoes  of  the  War,  Scribner's. 

The  Well-Remembehed  Voice. 
Ibid. 

Peter  Pan:  A  charming  fairy  drama  of  the  baby  from  the  Never- 
Never  Land  and  of  his  make-believe  play  with  his  friends  in  the  nursery. 
Scribner's. 

The  Twelve-Pound  Look:  On  the  eve  of  achieving  knighthood  the 
hero  suffers  a  startling  disclosure  which  leads  him  to  look  suspiciously  for 
the  "twelve-pound  look"  in  his  lady's  eyes. 

In  Half-Hours,  Scribner's. 

What  Evert  Woman  Knows:  As  we  behold  the  creation  of  John 
Shand's  career  by  Maggie  his  wife,  who  lacks  charm,  and  particularly  as 
we  observe  her  campaign  against  a  woman  fully  possessed  of  charm,  we 
want  to  learn  "  what  every  woman  knows."     The  secret  is  enlightening. 

Scribner's. 

Lewis  Beach 

Brothers,  A  Sardonic  Comedt:  Two  "poor  whites"  quarrel  vio- 
lently over  a  worthless  inheritance,  and  then  combine  in  arson  to  prevent 
their  mother  from  getting  it:  a  disquieting  and  searching  study  of  depths 
of  shiftlessness  and  passionate  meanness. 

In  Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays,  edited  by  Frank  Shay  and  Pierre 
S.  Loving.    Frank  Shay. 

The  Clod:  A  powerful  drama  of  the  flare-up  of  a  stolid  and  apparently 
unfeeling  nature  in  the  flame  of  the  pity  and  horror  of  war. 
In  Washington  Square  Plays,  Doubleday. 


300  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Jacinto  Benavente 

His  Widow's  Husband:  An  absurd  comedy  of  the  small  gossip  and 
rigid  conventions  in  a  Spanish  provincial  capital.  (Translated  by  John 
Garrett  Underhill.) 

In  Plays,  First  Series,  Scribner's. 

Arnold  Bennett 

A  Good  Woman:  A  farcical  triangular  plot  with  particularly  good 
comic  characters. 

In  Polite  Farces,  Doran. 

The  Stepmother:  Satirical  pre<»entment  of  a  lady  novelist,  her  effi- 
cient secretary,  and  her  stepson,  not  to  mention  the  doctor  downsUiirs; 
amusing  studies  in  character. 

Ibid. 

The  Great  .Xdvfintctre:  Good  dramatization  of  tlie  astounding  ad- 
ventures of  Priam  Farll  (from  Buried  Alirc),  who  attends  his  own  funeral 
in  Westminster  .VblKy,  marries  a  younj?  and  suitable  widow  with  whom 
his  late  valet  has  corresponded  through  a  matrimonial  bureau,  and  meets 
other  amazing  situations. 

Doran. 

The  Title:  A  delightful  comedy  in  which  several  people  who  have 
denoimcetl  the  disgraceful  awarding  of  Engiisli  titles  have  a  bad  time  of 
it  with  Mrs.  Culver,  who  does  not  propose  to  let  slip  the  opportunity  of 
being  called  "  My  Lady."  You  can  probablj'  guess  which  side  wins  in  the 
end. 

Doran. 

Gordon  Bottomley 

Kino  Lear'.s  Wife:  .'Vn  epi.so<le  in  King  Lear's  earlier  years,  which 
throws  much  imaginative  light  on  Cionerils  and  Cordelia's  later  treat- 
ment of  their  father.  Lear's  wife  herself,  as  we  might  have  guessed,  is  a 
pathetic  figure. 

Constable,  London;  also  In  Georgian  Poetry,  191S-15. 

Midsummer  Evk:  Several  farm  maidservants  meet  to  see  their  future 
lovers'  spirits  on  Midsununer  Kve,  but  see  only  the  "fetch  "  or  double  of 
one  of  them,  foretelling  her  death. 

In  King  Ixar's  Wife  and  Other  Plays,  Constable. 

Anna  Hempstead  Branch 

Rose  of  the  Wind:  A  fairy  play  of  the  dancing  and  allurement  of 
bewitche<l  slippers,  and  of  other  wonders. 
Houghton  Midlin. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  301 

Harold  Brighouse 

The  Doorway:  A  sharp  and  cruel  picture  of  unsheltered  people  on  a 
freezing  night  in  London. 
Joseph  Wilhams,  London. 

The  Game  :  A  cocksure  and  triumphant  girl  meets  more  than  her  match 
in  an  old  peasant  woman,  the  mother  of  the  man  she  wants  to  marry. 
In  Three  Lancashire  Plays,  Samuel  French. 

Hobson's  Choice:  In  which  the  eldest  daughter  at  Hobson's  plays  a 
winning  game  against  her  tyrannous  father  and  superior-feeling  sisters, 
using  a  quite  excellent  but  disregarded  piece. 

Constable,  London;  Doubleday,  New  York. 

Maid  of  France:  An  effective  play  in  which  Joan  of  Arc  lays  aside 
her  old  hate  for  the  English  soldiers,  whom  she  discovers  on  French  soil 
again. 

Gowans  and  Gray,  Glasgow. 

The  Oak  Settle 
Gowans  and  Gray. 

The  Price  of  Coal:  Picturing  the  stoical  and  terrible  resignation  to 
peril  of  death  of  old  women  in  the  coal  regions  —  and  presenting  an  unex- 
pected ending. 

Gowans  and  Gray. 

Harold  Brock 

The  Bank  Account:  A  small  but  poignant  tragedy  of  the  savings- 
account  which  a  clerk  has  coimted  upon  to  free  him  after  many  years  of 
drudgery,  and  which  he  has  entrusted  to  his  stupid  and  vulgar  and 
cheaply  frivolous  wife. 

In  Harvard  Dramatic  Club  Plays,  First  Series,  Brentano's. 


Alice  Brown 

Joint  Owners  in  Spain:  The  two  most  refractory  inmates  of  an  Old 
Ladies'  Home  have  to  face  and  solve  the  problem  of  living  in  the  same 
room. 

Walter  H.  Baker. 

Witter  Bynner 

The  Little  King:  A  delineation  of  the  cruel  suffering  and  the  daunt- 
less courage  of  the  small  Louis  XVII;  he  refuses  to  be  cowed  by  the  bully- 
ing of  his  keeper  or  to  let  a  poor  boy  assume  his  fate. 

Kennerley. 


302  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

George  Calderon 

The  Little  Stone  IIocse:  A  motlier  lias  denied  herself  everything 
to  build  a  small  mausoleum  to  her  dead  son,  and  so  idealized  him  mean- 
while that  her  realization  of  the  altered  situation  brings  an  astounding 
reaction. 

Sidgwick  and  Jackson. 

Margaret  Cameron 

The  Teeth  OF  the  GiPT  IIorsk:  A  pleasant  farce  built  alx)ut  two 
huge  and  hideous  hand-painted  vases  and  a  charming  little  old  lady  who 
perpetrated  them. 

P>ench. 

Gilbert  Cannan 

Evehtbody's  Husband:  Three  pcncrations  of  ladies  discuss  the  indi- 
vidual characteristics  of  their  husbands,  but  find  them,  after  all,  indis- 
tinpuishable  men. 

Seeker,  London. 

James  and  John:  They  arc  faced  with  their  invalid  mother's  request 
that  they  crown  many  years  of  tedious  sacxiCce  and  atonement  for  their 
father's  weak  crime  by  taking  him  into  their  lives  again. 

In  Four  Plays,  Sidgwick  and  Jackson. 

MAFtY's  Wedding:  Bill's  moflicr  tries  in  vain  to  dissuade  Mary  from 
the  certain  and  inescapable  misery  of  marrying  her  drunkard  son.  Bill 
himself  settles  Llie  problem. 

Ibid. 

A  Short  Wat  with  Authors:  An  entertaining  farce  showing  how  a 
great  actor-manager  goes  about  encouraging  serious  dramatic  composition. 
Ibid. 

Harold  Chapin 
Augustus  in  Search  of  a  Fatmiic  lie  returns  from  abroad  and  dis- 
cusses with  a  night-watchman  the  problem  of  his  search  for  his  father. 
Gowans  and  Gray. 

The  .•\uTocnAT  of  the  Coffee  Stalls:  A  strange  character  with  an 
astonishing  history  is  shown  us  in  the  night-light  from  a  refreshment 
wagon  in  Ix)ndon  streets. 

Gowans  and  Gray. 

The  Dumb  and  the  Blind:  A  study  of  a  bargeman's  family  in  London 
tenements.  Mr.  William  Archer  calls  this  "a  veritable  masterpiece  in  its 
way  —  a  thing  Dickons  would  have  <lelighted  in.  .  .  .  We  feel  that  the 
dumb  has  s|>()ken  and  the  blind  has  stx'n." 

tJowans  and  Gray;  forthcoming,  French,  New  York. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  303 

It's  the  Poor  that  'elps  the  Poor:  Of  the  simple  kindliness  of 
London  costermongers  and  their  neighborly  help  and  sympathy. 

French. 

Muddle  Aknie:  Of  course,  it  is  "Muddle  Annie  "who  helps  their  friend 
the  policeman  save  the  more  suave  and  self-satisfied  members  of  her  fam- 
ily from  a  precious  rogue. 

Gowans  and  Gray. 

The  Threshold:  Tells  of  a  Welsh  girl  about  to  elope  with  a  specious 
rascal,  and  of  the  intervention  of  her  old  father,  who  is  killed  in  a  mine 
accident. 

Gowans  and  Gray;  forthcoming,  French. 

Comedies. 

Chatto  and  Windus,  London. 

Colin  Clements  and  John  M.  Saunders,  translators 
Love  in  a  French  Kitchen:  A  comical  mediaeval  French  farce.  Jac- 
quinot  endures  a  miserable  compound  tyranny  of  petticoats  until  matters 
are  brought  to  a  head  by  cumulative  injustice  and  the  intervention  of 
accident. 

In  Poet  Lore  (1917),  28:722. 

Padraic  Colum 

MoGtJ  THE  Wanderer:  Pageantesque  and  dramatic  story  of  the  rise 
of  a  beggar  to  be  the  king's  vizier,  and  of  as  sudden  and  entire  reversal  of 
fortunes. 

Little,  Brown. 

Thomas  Muskerrt:  The  tragic  story  of  a  poorhouse-keeper  who  re- 
peats Lear's  error  of  letting  go  his  cherished  power,  and  who  suffers  as 
keenly  a  more  humble  tragedy. 

Maunsell,  Dublin. 

Rachel  Crothers 

He  and  She:  A  woman's  designs  win  over  those  of  her  husband,  who 
has  the  greater  reputation,  a  large  competitive  award  for  a  piece  of  sculp- 
ture; but  she  declines  the  commission  in  face  of  nearer  and  higher  respon- 
sibilities. 

In  Quinn's  Representative  American  Plays,  Century. 

Windsor  P.  Daggett  and  Winifred  Smith 

Lelio  and  Isabella;  A  Commedia  Dell'  Arte:  The  story  of  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  as  the  foremost  players  of  the  Italian  Comedy  of  Masks  may 
have  given  it  in  seventeenth-century  Paris  —  with  an  ending  of  their 
choice.  An  interesting  study  in  th«  type. 

In  manuscript:  N.  L.  Swartout,  Summit,  N.J. 


301  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

H,  H.  Davies 

The  Mollusc:  Clever  study  of  a  wonmn  wlio  is  a  mollusc  —  not 
merely  lazy,  since  she  is  capable  of  huge  exertions  to  avoid  being  disturbed; 
she  finds  plenty  of  opposition  to  show  forth  her  powers  upon. 

Baker. 

Thomas  H.  Dickinson 
In  Hospital:  A  poignant  small  dialogue  of  a  husband  and  wife  who 
meet  courageously  the  threatened  shipwreck  of  their  happiness. 
In  Wisconsin  Plays,  First  Series,  B.  W.  Ilucbsch. 

Beulah  M.  Dix 
Allison's  Lad:  A  Cavalier  lad,  about  to  be  shot  as  a  spy,  is  seized  by 
terror,  but  dies  bravely,  "as  if  strong  arms  were  around  him." 
In  Allison's  Lad  and  Other  Martial  Interludes,  Holt. 

The  Dark  of  the  Dawn:  Colonel  Basil  ToUocho  spares  a  boy  he  has 
sworn  to  destroy  in  revenge  of  a  great  wTong,  and  is  made  glad  of  his 
clemency. 

Ibid. 

The  Hundredth  Trick  :  Con  of  the  Hundred  Tricks  takes  fearfully 
stern  measures  against  possible  betrayal  of  his  cause. 

Ibid. 

Beulah  Marie  Dix  and  Evelyn  Greenleaf  Sutherland 
Rose  o"  Plymoutu  Town  :  A   pleasant  play  of  Puritans  and  their 
neiphbors. 

Dramatic  Publishing  Company. 

Oliphant  Down 
The  Maker  of  Dreams:  Poetical  small  play  in  which  love  appears 
with  a  new  make-up  but  in  the  old  r6le. 
Gowans  antl  Gray. 

Ernest  Dowson 
Thk  Pierrot  or  the  Minute:  .\  quite  charming  tale  of  Pierrot  and 
the  Moon-Mttidcu. 

In  his  Collected  Poems,  Lane. 

John  Drinkwater 
.VriRAiiAM  Lincoln:  A  dramatic  presentation  of  episodes  in  Lincoln's 
life,  from  his  iioiniiiMtion  fo  the  presidency  tohisileath. 
Sidgwick  and  Jackaou;  lloiightou  Millliu. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  305 

CoPHETTiA :  In  which  King  Cophetua  justifies  to  his  court  and  council- 
lors his  marriage  to  the  beggar  maid. 

Sidgwick  and  Jackson;  Houghton  Mifflin. 

The  Storm  :  An  intense  but  quiet  tragedy  of  a  woman  who  waits 
while  men  search  for  her  husband,  lost  in  a  great  storm  in  the  hills. 

In  Four  Poetic  Plays,  Houghton  Mifflin;  Pavms,  Sidgwick  and  Jackson. 

The  God  of  Quietness:  The  zest  of  war  draws  away  all  the  notable 
worshipers  of  the  god  of  quietness,  and  an  angry  war-lord  slays  the  god 
himself. 

Ibid. 

X=0:  A  Night  of  the  Trojan  War:  Trojans  and  Greeks,  lovers  of 
poetry,  fellowship,  and  justice,  carry  on  ruthless  slaughter,  and  by  irrep- 
arable losses  strike  a  balance  of  exact  advantage  to  either  side. 

lUd. 

Lord  Dunsany 

The  Gods  of  the  Mountain:  Of  seven  beggars  who  wear  pieces  of 
green  silk  beneath  their  rags,  and  by  brilliant  devices  of  Agmar,  their 
leader,  contrive  to  be  taken  for  the  gods  of  the  moimtain  disguised  as  beg- 
gars —  until  the  real  gods  leave  their  thrones  at  Marma. 

In  Five  Plays,  Richards,  London;  Little,  Brown. 

Kjng  Argiaienes  and  the  Unknown  Warrior  :  A  slave,  born  a  king, 
finds  an  old  bronze  sword  buried  in  the  ground  he  is  tilling,  and  hence- 
forward has  less  interest  in  the  bones  of  the  king's  dog,  who  is  dying. 

Ibid. 

The  Golden  Doom:  A  child's  scrawl  on  the  palace  pavements  furnishes 
the  text  for  the  soothsayers'  prophecy  of  disaster. 
Ibid. 

The  Lost  Silk  Hat:  Of  the  embarrassment  of  a  rejected  suitor  who,  in 
his  agitation,  has  left  his  hat  in  the  lady's  drawing-room  and  dislikes  the 
idea  of  returning  for  it. 

Ibid. 

The  Queen's  Enemies:  They  are  invited  to  a  feast  of  reconciliation 
in  the  great  banquet  room  below  the  level  of  the  river. 

In  Plays  of  Gods  and  Men.  Unwin,  London;  J.  W.  Luce,  Boston. 

A  Night  at  an  Inn  :  A  commonplace  ancient  plot  is  filled  anew  with 
dramatic  terror  and  a  sense  of  mystery. 
Ibid. 

Edith  M.  O.  EUis  (Mrs.  Havelock  ElUs) 

The  Subjection  of  Kezl^:  Joe  Pengilly,  a  Cornish  villager,  is  finally 
convinced  that  strong  measures  toward  her  subjection  are  alone  capable 


306  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

of  keeping  his  wife's  love,  and  buys  a  stout  cane.     We  leam  how  he  fared 
in  carrying  these  raeasiores  out. 

Ill  Loie  in  Danger,  Houghtou  MlflBin. 

St.  John  Ervine 
Four  Irlsh  Pl.\T8: 

Mi.XF.D  Makri.\ue:  A  tragedy  of  the  violent  hatreds  of  Ulster. 

Maunsel. 

The  Or.\nge\l.a.n:  A  comic  study  of  the  petty  madness  of  the  same 
hatreds. 

Maunsel. 

The  Critics:  Dramatic  critics  furiously  condemn  a  play  at  the  .\bbey 
Theatre  in  Dublin.  Gradually  we  discover  the  idea  of  the  play  through 
their  abuse,  and  at  last  we  recognize  it. 

Maunsel. 

Jane  Clegg:  A  strong  and  clear-sighted,  honest  woman  has  to  deal 
with  a  feeble  and  braggart  husband  whose  foolish  crime  threatens  to 
wreck  her  own  and  her  children's  lives. 

Sidgwick  an<l  Jackson. 

Rachel  Lyman  Field 

Three  Pills  in  a  Bottlk:  Fantastic  [)!ay  of  a  little  sick  boy  who  gives 
the  medicine  that  was  to  have  made  him  strong  to  feeding  the  starved  and 
abused  souls  of  various  passers-by. 

In  Plays  of  the  47  Workshop.  First  Series,  Brentano's. 

jj  •       Anatole  France 

The  Man  who  MARRilSkA  Dtmh  Wirr:  .\  mad  and  comic  farce,  in 
the  tradition  of  Pierre  PatcUnand  The  Physuriun  in  Spile  of  Himself.  Judge 
Ilotal  calls  in  a  learned  physician  and  his  aides  to  make  his  dumb  wife 
speak.  The  result  is  so  astoundingly  successful  that  he  pleads  for  relief. 
Finally  a  desperate  remedy  is  found. 

Translated  by  Curtis  Hidden  Page,  Lane.  1915. 

J.  O.  Francis 
Change:  The  tragic  conflict  of  ideals  of  two  generations  which  have 
grown  irreparably  apart  in  .social  and  econonuc  views. 

Educational  Publishing  Company,  Cardiff;  Doubleday,  New  York. 

Zona  Gale 
The  Neighbors:  Kindliness  called  forth  among  village  people  to  aid 
a  i><M)r  seanistre.Hs  who  is  to  undertake  the  care  of  her  orphan  nephew. 
In  Wisconsin  Plays,  First  Series,  B.  W.  Iluobsch. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  307 

Miss  Lulu  Bett:  A  starved  life  blossoms  suddenly  and  unexpectedly. 
This  play,  winner  of  the  Pulitzer  Prize  for  1920,  is  stronger  and  finer  work 
than  the  author  has  done  heretofore. 

Appleton  (in  novel  form) . 

John  Galsworthy 

The  Eldest  Son:  Sir  William  Cheshire  comes  to  quite  dififerent  solu- 
tions of  similar  problems  when  different  individual  and  class  factors  enter 
into  them. 

Scribner's. 

Justice:  Mr.  Ludwig  Lewisohn  writes:  "The  economic  structure  of 
society  on  any  basis  requires  the  keeping  of  certain  compacts.  It  cannot 
endure  such  a  breaking  of  these  compacts  as  Falder  is  guilty  of  when  he 
changes  the  figures  on  the  cheque.  Yet  by  the  simple  march  of  events  it  is 
overwhelmingly  proven  that  society  here  stamps  out  a  human  life  not 
without  its  fair  possibilities  —  for  eighty-one  pounds." 

Scribner's. 

The  Little  Man:  Brilliant  caricature  of  various  national  types  of 
tourist,  and  absurd  apotheosis  of  the  Little  Man,  of  no  particular  nation 
and  of  insignificant  appearance,  who  proves  quietly  capable  of  doing  what 
the  rest  discuss. 

Scribner's. 

The  Mob:  The  reply  of  the  hysterical  and  "patrioteering"  members 
of  his  own  class,  and  of  the  many-headed  rage,  to  a  man  who  stood  against 
an  unjust  war. 

Scribner's. 

The  Pigeon:  A  discussion  of  social  misfits  and  mavericks,  with,  of 
course,  no  attempted  panacea  or  solution. 
Scribner's. 

The  Silver  Box: 

"Jones:  Call  this  justice?  What  about 'im?  'E  got  drunk!  'E  took  the 
purse  —  'E  took  the  purse,  but  {in  a  muffled  shout)  it's  'is  money  got  'im 
off!   Justice! 

"The  Magistrate:  We  will  now  adjourn  for  limch."  (ActIL) 

In  Plays,  First  Series,  Scribner's,  1916. 

Strife:  In  the  strike  the  leaders  of  the  men  and  of  the  employers  are 
stanch  against  compromise,  but  "the  strong  men  with  strong  convictions 
are  broken.  The  second-rate  run  the  world  through  half-measures  and 
concessions."    (Lewisohn.) 

Ibid. 


308  BIBLIOGRAPin' 

Louise  Ayers  Garnett 

Master  Will  of  Stratford:  A  pleasiiiit  drama  of  Will  Shakespeare's 
boyhoo(l.  Compare  Lander's  "Citation  and  Examination  of  Will  Shake- 
speare for  Deer-Stealing." 

Macmillan. 

Alice  Gerstenberg 

Overtones:  While  two  women  are  conversing  politely,  they  are  at- 
tended by  their  real,  unconventional  selves,  who  interrupt  to  say  what 
the  women  actually  think  and  mean.  Compare  Ninah  Wilcox  Putnam's 
Orthodoxy  {I'orum,  June,  1914,  51 :  801),  in  which  everyone  in  church  says 
what  he  is  thinking  instead  of  what  is  proper  and  expected. 

In  Washington  Square  Plays,  Douhleday. 

Giuseppa  Giacosa 

The  Rights  of  the  Socl:  Anna  is  sternly  loyal  to  her  husband  Paolo, 
but  refuses  to  submit  to  his  incessant  prying  into  her  individuality  and 
questioning  of  her  thoughts  and  her  feelings. 

Frank  Shay. 

The  Wager:  "Sentimental  comedy,  poetic  and  graceful,  by  one  of  the 
greatest  contemporary  Italian  dramatists." 
Barrett  H.  Clark,  translator. 
French . 

W.  S.  Gilbert 

RosENCRANTZ  AND  GuiLDENSTERN :  \  most  absurd  paro<ly  on  Hamlet, 
wherein  a  lamentable  tragedy  wTitten  an<l  repented  by  his  undo  the  king 
is  unoartlio<l  and  turned  to  the  sad  prince's  undoing. 

In  Original  Plays,  Scribncr's. 

Engaged 

Princess  Ida 

William  Gillette 

Secret  Service :  A  most  intense  situation  in  Richmond  during  the 
Civil  War,  nbly  hnnflled  bj-  a  quiet  and  brilliant  Northern  secret -service 
man;  weakened  by  a  manufactiu-ed  happy  entling. 

French. 

Susan  Glaspell 

Trifles:  Two  women,  by  noting  the  significant  trifles  which  the  sheriff 
and  the  attorney  overlook,  disc-over  the  story  of  suffering  which  led  to  a 
crime.  Speaking  of  their  ncgle<t  of  neighborly  kindness,  one  says, 
"That's  a  crime  too,  and  who's  going  to  punish  that?" 

In  Washington  Square  Playt. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  309 

Lady  Gregory 

Irish  Folk-History  Plats: 

I.  The  Tragedies:  Stories  of  the  beautiful  and  potent  queens  who 
brought  suffering  upon  thenaselves  and  upon  others;  compare  Synge's  and 
Yeats's  stories  of  Deirdre. 

Putnam. 

II.  The  Tragi-Comedies:  The  White  Cockade  :  In  which  James  II  de- 
feats the  gains  of  his  loyal  subjects  by  his  abject  and  ridiculous  cowardice. 

Putnam. 

C.\j^AVANs:  A  covetous  miller,  his  clever  wandering  brother,  and  some 
pleasant  absurdity  about  the  popular  worship  of  Queen  Elizabeth  by  her 
loyal  subjects  in  Ireland. 

Putnam. 

The  Deliveber:  Apparently  an  Irish  peasant's  idea  of  the  story  of 
Moses. 
Putnam. 

Workhouse  Ward;  Hyacinth  Halvey;  The  Jackdaw: 
Comedies  full  of  Irish  wit,  conscious  and  unconscious  comedy,  and  end- 
less complication  of  events  and  hearsay  in  Cloon. 
All  in  Seven  Short  Plays,  Putnam. 

The  Bogie  Man;  The  Full  Moon;  Coats: 

More  about  Cloon  people,  including  the  rescue  of  Hyacinth  Halvey 
from  his  troublesome  reputation  and  from  the  place  by  the  magic  and 
lunacy  of  moonlight. 

In  New  Irish  Comedies,  Putnam. 

Damer's  Gold:  A  fortunate  rescue  from  the  torments  of  miserliness 
and  pestilent  heirs;  the  author's  notes  on  the  origin  of  the  play  are  inter- 
esting. 

Ibid. 

The  Gaol  Gate:  A  brief  and  effective  tragic  story  of  two  women  who 
fear  that  their  man  has  betrayed  his  mates,  but  who  find  that  he  has  been 
hanged  without  informing;  the  mother  improvises  a  psalm  of  praise  of  bis 
steadfastness. 

In  Seven  Short  Plays. 

The  Traveling  Man  :  A  peasant  woman  who  has  been  befriended  by 
a  mysterious  wanderer  expects  his  return  so  that  she  may  thank  him.  She 
drives  away  a  tramp  from  her  kitchen,  and  then  discovers  who  he  was. 

Ibid. 

The  Golden  Apple:  Many  scenes,  some  excellent  fun;  of  a  search  for 
miraculous  fruit,  of  a  giant  who  is  high  and  bloodthirsty  only  in  carefully 
fostered  reputation,  and  the  like  matters. 

Putnam. 


310  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

St.  John  Hankin 
The  Perfect  Lo\-kr:  Delighlfuldramatic  version  of  Suckling's  "Con- 
stant Lover." 

In  Dramatic  Works,  Seeker. 

Return  of  the  Prodigal:  The  same  young  man,  or  his  close  image, 
having  managed  to  be  received  by  his  family  as  a  returned  prodigal, 
calmly  puts  ujion  them  the  question  of  his  future. 

Ibid. 

Toe  Cassilis  ExoAOBaiENT 
Ibid. 

Gerhardt  Hauptmann 

The  Weavers:  Painful  presentation  of  the  suffering  of  the  German 
weavers  in  the  first  adjustments  of  tlie  Industrial  Revolution. 

In  Dickinson's  Chief  Cotitemporanj  Dramatists;  also  in  Lewisohn's trans- 
lations, Huebsch. 

Winifred  N.  Hawkridge 

The  Florist  Shop:  Rather  sentimentalist  play  of  good  influences 
wafted  by  a  young  woman  as  a  florist's  clerk;  excellent  business  combines 
witii  tlie  influences. 

In  Harvard  Dramatic  Club  Plays.  First  Series.  Brentano's. 

Hazelton  and  Benrimo 

The  Yellow  Jacket:  The  coiiviiitioiis  of  the  Chinese  theatre,  more 
or  less  faithfully  presented,  make  a  quite  comical  presentment  of  an  an- 
cient Chinese  legend. 

IJobbs,  .Merrill. 

Theresa  Helburn 

Enter  the  Hero:  .\  madly  faneifiil  girl  fabricates  a  romance  out  of 
whcile  clolli,  ciusts  a  friend  as  hero,  and  tells  her  small  world  about  it. 
Even  the  rough  measures  the  hero  has  to  use  to  escape  do  not  succeed  in 
curing  lier  of  the  habit. 

In  Fli/iug  Stage  Plays.  \o.  4,  .\hrens;  Fifty  Contemporary  On«-Act  Plays, 
Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Perez  Hirschbein 
In  the  Dark:  Grim  and  awful  picture  of  the  depths  of  misery  and 
starvation  in  a  Ghetto  basement.  Translated  by  Goldberg. 
In  Six  Plays  of  the  Yiddish  Theatre.  First  Series:  Luce. 

Hugo  von  Hofmannsthal 
Madonna  Dianor.\:  Fearsome  tragedy  of  the  Ring-and-Book  sort, 
beautifully  and  poignantly  presented. 
Tran-shited  by  lliirriett  Mons.  Hudger. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  311 

Stanley  Houghton 
The  Dear  Departed:  Somewhat  precipitate  haste  for  advantage  in 
dividing  grandfather's  effects  is  fittingly  rebuked. 

In  Dramatic  Works,  vol.  i.    French,  New  York;  Constable,  London. 

The  Fifth  Commandment:  A  mother  finds  being  an  "imaginary  in- 
vaHd"  excellent  for  checkmating  her  daughter's  plans,  but  inconveniently 
in  the  way  of  her  own. 

Ibid. 

Laurence  Housman 

Rettjrn  of  Alcestis:  A  modern  poetic  view  of  the  spirit  of  Alcestis 
retiu-ning  to  Admetus  after  her  sacrifice  and  rescue.  Edwin  Arlington 
Robinson  has  also  handled  this  theme  lately. 

French. 

BntD  IN  Hand:  A  pedantic  old  scholar  is  mysteriously  plagued  by  an 
illusion  of  faery,  but  in  time  conquers  the  obsession. 
French. 

Bethlehem:  A  nativity  play. 
Macmillan. 

The  Chinese  Lantern:  Pleasantly   effective  scenes   in  a   Chinese 
studio. 
Sidgwick  and  Jackson. 

William  Dean  Howells 

The  Sleeping  Car;  The  Register;  The  Mouse  Trap;  The  Albany 
Depot;  The  Garroters: 

Amusing  but  somewhat  worn  farces,  several  of  them  introducing  the 
voluble  Mrs.  Roberts  and  her  family. 


Henrik  Ibsen 

An  Enemy  of  the  People:  A  scientist  who  insists  on  making  known, 
and  setting  to  work  to  remedy,  the  evils  and  wrongs  of  his  community  has 
to  reckon  with  the  people;  compare  The  Mob,  by  John  Galsworthy. 

Boni  and  Liveright. 

The  Doll's  House:  Nora  Hjalmar,  who  has  always  been  petted  and 
shielded,  at  last  has  to  face  and  solve  certain  diflBcult  problems  for  herself. 
She  thus  discovers  just  how  much  her  husband's  love  and  indulgence  are 
worth.  Her  solution  of  the  difficulty  is  presented,  not  as  necessarily  the 
right  thing  to  have  done,  but  as  what  such  a  woman  would  do  under 
the  circumstances. 

Boni  and  Liveright. 


312  BIBLIOGRAPHY  * 

The  Lady  from  the  Sea:  EUida  Wrangel,  wife  of  the  village  pastor, 
feels  the  call  of  the  sea;  she  feels  she  must  go  with  the  rough  sailor  to 
whom  she  was  once  betrothed.  When  Wrangel  sinc-erely  offers  her  liberty 
to  choose,  she  "seeks  the  security  of  a  familiar  home,  and  the  wild  lure  of 
the  great  sea  spaces  can  trouble  her  no  more."   (Lewisohn.) 

Boni  and  Liveright. 

W.  W.  Jacobs  and  Others 

Admiral  Peters;  The  Gray  Parrot;  The  Changeling;  Boatswain's 
Mate: 

Jolly  farces  of  sailors  and  watchmen  and  their  families,  based  on  Jacobs's 
stories  in  Captains  All,  Many  Cargoes,  and  the  rest. 

French. 

The  Monkey's  Paw:  A  most  fearful  and  gruesome  play,  based  on 
Jacobs's  story,  in  the  vein  of  the  Three  Wishes,  and  the  Foot  of  Pharaoh,  by 
Gautier. 

French. 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Fanny  and  the  Servant  Problem:  The  new  Lady  Bantock  is  sur- 
prised to  discover  both  her  real  rank  and  her  strange  relationship  with  her 
twenty-three  servants.    An  interesting  character  study. 

French. 

William  EUery  Leonard 

Glory  ok  the  Morning:  The  pathos  of  two  civilizations  contending 
for  the  children  of  the  Indian  woman.  Glory  of  the  Morning;  they  must  go 
with  their  f.ithor  to  France  or  stay  with  their  mother.  Dr.  Leonard  has 
newly  completed  another  powerful  tragedy,  Re<l  Bird,  as  yet  impublished. 

In  Wisconsin  Plays.  First  Series.  1914,  B.  W.  Hucbsch. 

Justin  McCarthy 

If  I  Wf.hr  Kinc:  A  romantic  play,  in  the  vein  of  Pc  Banville's  Crin- 
gnire.  in  which  N'illon  InM-omes  Marshal  of  France,  for  a  brief  time  and 
with  a  fi-arfiil  condition  stipulated  by  the  spider-king,  Louis  XI. 

Heinemaiin. 

Edward  Knoblauch  and  Arnold  Bennett 

Milk«tonk.s:  Three  dilTorciit  generations,  with  their  ilifferent  ideas 
anil  ideals,  confront  similar  problems  wiLli  different  views,  and  arrive  at 
various  conclusions. 

Doran. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  313 

Percy  Mackaye 

The  Canterbxjrt  Pilgrims:  Mr.  Mackaye,  translator  with  Professor 
Tatlock  of  Chaucer's  Canterbury  Tales,  has  WTitten  here  a  clever  play  of 
the  travelers'  adventures.  The  Wife  of  Bath  is  of  course  the  ringleader  in 
mischief. 

Macmillan. 

Caliban  by  the  Yellow  Sands:  A  masque  for  the  Shakespeare  Ter- 
centenary Celebration,  New  York  City. 
Doubleday. 

Jeanne  d'Abc:  A  tragedy  made  up  of  incidents  in  the  life  of  the  Maid. 
Macmillan. 

Sam  Average:  A  Silhouette.  A  soldier  of  1812  is  kept  true  to  the  cause 
by  a  vision  of  Sam  Average,  the  spirit  of  his  nation. 
In  Yankee  Fantasies,  Duffield. 

The  Scarecrow:  A  lively  dramatization  of  Hawthorne's  Feathertop, 
from  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse. 

Macmillan. 

Mary  MacMillan 

The  Shadowed  Stae:  Portraying  the  cruel  suffering  of  two  Irish  peas- 
ant women  who  wait  in  a  city  tenement  for  Christmas  as  they  remember  it. 

In  Short  Plays,  Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Maurice  Maeterlinck 

Ardiane  and  Bluebeard:  A  resolute  wife  finally  defies  Bluebeard 
and  rescues  his  wives;  but  they  refuse  to  forsake  their  unfortimate  and 
beloved  husband. 

Dodd,  Mead. 

A  Miracle  of  Saint  Anthony 

The  Intruder;  The  Death  of  Tintagiles;  Interior  (or  Home)  : 
Poignant  and  mystical  tragedies  expressing  the  unseen  and  inescapable 
forces  surrounding  and  closing  in  upon  men's  lives. 
Boni  and  Liveright;  Dodd,  Mead. 

The  Blue  Bird  :  Two  peasant  children,  accompanied  by  their  friends 
Dog,  Cat,  Bread,  Sugar,  and  others,  search  everywhere  for  the  blue  bird 
of  happiness.  They  visit  among  other  places  the  realms  of  the  dead,  where 
their  grandparents  are,  and  of  the  unborn.  Finally  they  look  in  the  last 
and  likeliest  place. 

Dodd,  Mead. 

The  Betrothal:  Further  adventures  of  Tytyl. 
Dodd,  Mead. 


314  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

John  Masefield 
PniLip  THE  King;  Tr.\gkijy  ok  I'ompet  the  Great: 
Hifjh  tragedies.    The  great  Pompey,  defeated  by  the  upstart  Ca;sar, 
is  kinglj-  to  the  end. 
Sidgwick  and  Jackson,  London;  Macmillan,  New  York. 

The  Sweeps  of  Ninety-Eight:  A  fugitive  from  an  unsiict-essful  rebel- 
lion achieves  a  sweeping  revenge  upon  the  leaders  of  the  enemy;  amusing 
comedy. 

Macmillan. 

The  Tragedy  of  Nan:  One  of  the  most  poignantly  tragic  of  modem 
plays;  the  mercilessness  of  weak  and  selfish  people  crushes  out  a  beautiful 
life. 

Richards,  London. 

Rutherford  Mayne  (].  Waddell) 
The  Drone:  .An  old  man  by  jilnying  craftily  at  being  on  the  eve  of  a 
great  invention  lives  most  comfortably  on  his  brother's  means;  but  forces 
accumulate  against  him  and  he  is  threatened  with  eviction  from  the  hive. 
Luce. 

George  Middleton 

The  nL.\cK  Tie:  \  i)lay  of  sharp  and  quiet  sufTering,  presenting  at  a 
new  angle  the  Southern  cleavage  of  races.  The  negro  classes  are  not 
allowed  to  appear  in  the  Sunday-scliool  procession,  and  the  small  disap- 
pointment is  tyi)ical  of  greater  dejjrivalions. 

In  I'osucssion  and  other  One-Act  Plays,  Holt. 

Masks:  An  author  who  has  spoiled  a  good  play  so  that  it  will  "go"  on 
the  stage  is  called  upon  by  the  angry  characters,  whom  he  created  and 
then  forced  to  do  as  they  would  not  really  have  done. 

In  Afa.iliS  and  other  One- Act  Plays,  Ilolt. 

MoTHER.s:  A  mother  tries  in  vain  to  prevent  a  young  woman  whom  she 
loves  from  marrying  her  son  and  repeating  the  misery  of  her  own  marriage 
with  a  weakling. 

In  Tradition  and  other  One-Act  Plays,  Ilolf . 

On  Hail:  A  gambler's  wife  who  has  shared  his  illegal  gains  nuist  help 
him  pay  his  debt  to  tlie  law;  their  .son,  toD,  is  invoIve<l. 
Ilrid. 

The  Two  Houses;  .\n  old  profe,s.sor  and  his  wife  talk  quietJy  together 
of  t  he  plans  and  the  realities  they  have  liveil  amon^'. 
In  Masks,  etc. 

Waiting:  False  conventional   ideas   have   long   thwarted,   and   now 
tliri-alen  to  wreck,  the  happiness  of  people  who  care  ^crcally  for  each  oilier. 
In  Tradition,  etc. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  315 

Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

Aria  da  Capo:  A  fantasy  in  which  Pierrot,  Columbine,  and  the  Gre- 
cian shepherds  of  Theocritus  display  their  varied  views  of  life. 

In  Reedy  s  Mirror:  reprinted  in  Fijty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays, 
Stewart  and  Kidd,  Cincinnati. 

Allan  Milne 

The  Boy  Comes  Home:  A  war  proGteer  has  a  bad  half-hoiu*  of  diffi- 
culties in  getting  his  soldier  nephew  to  work  and  live  according  to  his 
views;  he  then  faces  the  problem  in  reality. 

In  First  Plays,  Knopf. 

The  Lucky  One  :  The  Lucky  One  fails  to  win  a  trick  he  had  counted 
on,  but  his  chorus  of  relatives  —  surely  related  to  Sir  Willoughby  Pat- 
terne's  —  do  not  even  notice  the  misfortune. 

Ibid. 

Wurzel-Flummery:  Of  two  men  offered  a  good-sized  fortune  by  a 
will  provided  they  will  adopt  Wurzel-Flummery  in  place  of  their  own 
more  satisfactory  surnames,  and  of  their  decision. 

IMd. 

Allan  Monkhouse 

Night  Watches:  A  quiet  and  vivid  picturing  of  the  potential  cruelty 
and  f rightfulness  of  ordinary  well-meaning  ignorance  and  terror;  the  fable 
reminds  one  of  Galsworthy's  "The  Black  Godmother,"  in  The  Inn  of 
Tranquillity. 

In  War  Plays,  Constable,  London. 

William  Vaughn  Moody 

The  Faith  Healer:  A  serious  drama  presenting  in  moving  and  human 
fashion  the  effects  of  faith  and  disillusion. 
Macmillan. 

Dhan  Gopal  Mukerji 

The  Judgment  of  Indra:  A  Hindu  play,  in  which  a  priest  of  Indra, 
after  making  a  supreme  sacrifice  of  himself  and  others  in  order  to  root  out 
human  affection  from  his  heart,  thinks  that  his  god  speaks  in  the  light- 
ning of  the  storm  that  ensues. 

Iti  Fijty  Contemporary  One- Act  Plays,  edited  by  Shay  and  Loving. 

Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Tracy  Mygatt 

Good  Friday:  A  Passion  Play.  A  powerful  tragedy  of  the  conscien- 
tious objector. 

Published  by  the  author,  23  Bank  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 


31G  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Alfred  Noyes 
Sherwood:  A  poetical  play  of  Robin  Hood  and  his  band. 
Stokes. 

Eugene  O'Neill 

Beyond  the  Horizon:  The  Pulitzer  Prize  Play,  19£0.  A  tragic  story 
of  a  young  man  who  longed  to  seek  romance  "beyond  the  horizon,"  and 
coulil  find  neither  that  nor  any  happiness,  but  only  defeat  and  misery,  io 
his  everyday  surroundings. 

Boni  and  Liveright. 

Bound  E.vst  for  Cardiff:  The  injury  and  death  of  a  forecastle  hand, 
illuminating  the  varying  natures  of  his  shipmates. 
In  iloon  of  the  Caribbees,  Boni  and  Liveright. 

In  the  Zone:  Suspicion  of  treachery  in  the  submarine  zone,  directed 
against  a  sailor  who  is  different  from  the  rest  in  the  forecastle. 
Ibid. 

Where  the  Cross  is  M.\de:  An  old  sailor  goes  mad  waiting  futilely 
for  the  return  of  a  treasure  expedition  he  has  sent  out,  and  the  madness  of 
his  iflea  spreads  like  panic. 

Ibid. 

Hubert  Osborne 

The  Good  Men  Do:  An  Indkcorous  Epilogue:  Shakespeare's  fam- 
ily carefully  burn  his  surviving  plays  in  the  effort  to  cast  oblivion  upon  his 
low  occupation. 

In  Plays  of  the  Ji7  Workshop,  First  Scries,  1918. 

Monica  Barrie  O'Shea 

The  RcsHLiaHT:  A  inollur,  whose  son  may  l>e  saved  if  he  will  betray 
his  comrades,  has  only  to  send  him  a  [)aper  containing  tlie  information  the 
authorities  want.  Her  altitude  should  l>e  c-omparcd  with  that  of  the 
women  in  Campbell  of  Kilmhor  and  Lady  Gregory's  The  Gaol  Gate. 

Drama,  November,  1917.  liS:  GOi. 

Louis  N.  Parker 
Disraeli:  Play  of   intrigue  centring  about   the   character  of  Lord 
Benctinsfield  and  his  manu-uvrcs  to  obtain  control  of  the  Suez  Canal. 
Lane. 

Minuet:  A  brief  play  of  i-ouragc  and  loyalty  in  face  of  Madame  Guil« 
lotine. 

In  Century  Magazine,  January,  1915. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  317 

Josephine  Preston  Peabody 

Marlowe:  A  tragedy  introducing  several  of  the  Elizabethan  play- 
wrights in  tavern  scenes,  and  making  a  fine  and  romantic  character  of  Kit 
Marlowe. 

Houghton  Mifflin. 

The  Piper:  A  pleasant  dramatization  of  the  legend  of  Hamelin  Town. 
Houghton  Mifflin. 

The  Wolf  of  Gtjbbio:  A  play  about  Saint  Francis  and  some  of  his 
brothers,  both  animals  and  villagers. 
Houghton  Mifflin. 

Louise  Saunders  (Perkins) 
The  Woodland  Princess:  Very  attractive  children's  operetta  with 
music  by  Alice  Terhune. 
Schirmer;  French. 

Stephen  Phillips 
Ulysses:  A  drama  or  masque  of  Ulysses'  adventures,  from  his  farewell 
to  Calypso  through  a  vigorous  combat  with  the  wooers. 
Macmillan. 

Eden  Phillpotts 
The  Shadow:  A  most  affecting  and  tragic  play  of  the  influence  of  a 
crime  upon  two  people  who  love  most  sincerely,  and  upon  their  very  loyal 
friend. 
In  Three  Plays,  Duckworth,  London. 

The  Mother  :  A  moving  presentation  of  the  force  of  a  mother's  sense 
and  love;  she  refuses  to  shield  her  son  when  he  has  done  wrong,  but  works 
in  every  way  to  set  him  straight  and  to  continue  her  influence  after  her 
death. 

Ibid. 

The  Point  of  View:    A  domestic  altercation  is  arbitrated  by  a  friend 
of  the  family,  and  then  the  arbiter  is  given  new  light  on  the  situation. 
Curtain  Raisers,  Duckworth,  London. 

Arthur  Wing  Pinero 
The  Plu^ygoers:  A  farce  in  which  a  lady  attempts  to  provide  cultural 
amusement  for  her  servants,  and  succeeds  in  breaking  up  the  smooth- 
running  establishment. 
London. 

David  Pinski 
Abigail:  A  dramatization  of  a  Biblical  story  from  the  wars  of  David. 
Translated  from  the  Yiddish  by  Dr.  Goldberg. 
In  Six  Plays  of  the  Yiddish  Theatre,  Luce. 


818  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Forgotten  Souls:  Fanny  Segal's  self-sacrifice  for  her  sister  and  lover 
is  carried  to  a  strange  and  morbid  extreme. 
In  Six  Plays  of  the  Yiddish  Theatre,  Luce. 

Graham  Pxyce 
The  Coming  of  Fair  Annie:  A  simple  but  effective  dramatization  of 
the  old  ballad. 
Gowans  and  Gray. 

Richard  Pryce  and  Arthur  Morrison 
The  Dumb  Cake:  A  St.  Agnes'  Eve  story  in  a  London  slum. 
French. 

Serafin  and  Joaquim  Qumtero 
A  SuNNT  Morning:  Two  very  old   people  recall  the  tremendously 
romantic  happenings  of  their  early  youth. 

In  Fifty  Contemporary  One- Act  Plays,  Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Edwin  Arlington  Robinson 
Van  Zorn:  A  play  of  New  York  studio  life  in  which  Van  Zorn  puts  hia 
own  desires  out  of  court  and  plays  providence  in  the  lives  of  his  friends. 
Macmillan. 

Santiago  Rosinol 
The  Prodigal  Doll:  A  comical  marionette  sows  his  wild  oats  most 
violently  and  repents  in  deep  sorrow. 
In  Drama,  February,  1917,  5  :  15. 

Edmond  Rostand 

Ctrano  de  Bergerac:  A  groat  play  of  a  swashbuckling  hero  of  the 
Paris  of  Moli^re's  time. 

Doiibleday;  also  in  Dickinson's  Comtemporary Dramalist3,Y,  Houghton 
Mifflin. 

L'.\iglon:  The  tragic  story  of  Naixjloon's  son,  the  little  King  of  Rome, 
captive  among  enemies  determined  to  tame  his  spirit. 

Harper. 

The  Princess  Far-Awat:  The  story  of  the  Troubadour  Rudel  and 
the  Princess  of  Tripoli,  celebrated  in  one  of  Browning's  poems,  represents 
all  worship  of  what  is  beyond  attainment. 

Stokes. 

The  Romanceh.s:  The  foolish  and  romantic  notions  of  two  lovers  are 
ably  caricatured  by  their  fathers'  plots  and  stratagems. 

Baker,  1006. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  319 

Arthur  Schnitzler 

Last  Masks:  A  dying  man  in  the  Vienna  Hospital  contrives  an  oppor- 
tunity for  the  cruel  stroke  he  has  intended  at  a  man  who  has  succeeded 
where  he  himself  has  failed;  at  the  moment  of  possible  triumph  a  different 
mood  controls  him.  There  are  three  excellent  studies  of  character  in  the 
play. 

In  Anatol  and  Other  Plays,  Boni  and  Liveright. 


George  Bernard  Shaw 

Androcles  and  the  Lion:  The  old  story  of  a  saint  whom  the  lion  re- 
membered as  his  friend  —  with  much  shrewd  light  upon  certain  types 
of  early  Christians. 

Constable. 

CiESAK  AND  Cleopatra:  New  views  of  the  chief  characters,  intro- 
duced by  two  interesting  scenes  —  of  a  garrison  in  Syria  by  night  and  of 
Cleopatra  in  the  arms  of  the  Sphinx. 

In  Three  Plays  for  Puritans,  Constable. 

The  Man  op  Destiny:  Napoleon  after  Lodi,  attacking  all  courses  of 
his  dinner  simultaneously,  drawing  maps  with  his  fork  dipped  in  the  gravy, 
and  discoursing  shrewdly  on  courage  and  success. 

Constable. 

O'Flaherty,  V.C:  On  a  recruiting  mission  in  his  own  country, 
O'Flaherty  must  accoimt  to  his  mother  for  his  hitherto  concealed  crime 
of  fighting  not  against,  but  for  England. 

In  Heartbreak  House.  Constable. 

Augustus  Does  His  Bit:  A  high-born  muddler  in  Britain's  conduct 
of  the  war. 

Ibid. 

Arthur  Shirley 

Gringoire  the  Ballad- Maker:  A  translation  and  adaptation  of 
de  Banville's  comedy  about  another  poet  than  Villon  in  the  hands  of 
Louis  XL 

Dramatic  Publishing  Company. 

Thomas  "Wood  Stevens 

The  Nursery  Maid  of  Heaven  :  "  Vernon  Lee's  "  eighteenth-centiu-y 
legend  of  Sister  Benvenuta  and  the  Christ-Child,  in  a  simple  and  effec- 
tively dramatic  form. 

In  Fifty  Contemporary  One- Act  Plays,  Stewart  and  Kidd. 


320  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Alfred  Sutro 

The  Man  on  the  Kerb:  A  workman  who  has  failed  in  every  attempt 
to  get  work  or  help  faces  starvation  with  his  wife  and  baby  in  a  Loadon 
tenement  basement.  No  solution  of  the  problem  is  offere<l. 

In  Five  Little  Plays,  Duckworth,  London. 

A  \LuiRiAGE  HAS  BEEN  Arr.\nged:  Comcdy  of  a  rejected  proposal  for 
a  society  "  marriage  of  convenience,"  followed  by  an  adjustment  of  under- 
standing upon  another  basis. 

Ibid. 

John  Millington  Synge 

Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows:  A  beautiful  and  poetic  dramatization  of 
the  tragic  Celtic  legend  of  Deirdre  and  the  Sons  of  Usna.  This  may  wtU 
be  compared  with  Yeats's  dramatization  of  the  same  story. 

Luce. 

The  Playboy  of  the  Western  World:  Rather  fearful  comedy  of  the 
popular  idolatry  ofifered  by  Irish  peasants  to  a  man  who  boasts  he  has 
killed  his  father. 

Luce. 

In  the  Shadow  of  the  Glen:  An  awesome  husband  makes  a  test  of 
his  wife's  love. 
Luce. 

The  Tinker's  Wedding:  Rather  boisterous  comedy  of  a  tinker-wo- 
man who  upsets  ancient  custom  by  insisting  on  a  church  wedding. 
Luce. 

The  Well  of  the  Saints:  A  gruesome  tragedy  of  a  blind  beggar  and 
his  wife.  .Ml  these  dramas  are  as  strangely  filled  with  beauty  ami  poetry 
of  expression  as  is  the  Riders  to  the  Sea. 

Luce. 

Rabindranath  Tagore 

The  Post  Office:  "A  poetic  and  symbolic  play." 

Macmillan. 

Anton  Tchekhov 

The  Boor;  The  Mauuiage  Proposal;  The  Wedding  Feast;  The 
Tragedian  in  Spite  of  Himself: 

Comical  farces  of  extravagant  conversiition  and  action,  and  apparently 
real  studies  of  R\issian  character. 

In  Plays,  Second  Series  Seriltner's. 

William  Makepiece  Thackeray 
The  Rose  and  the  Hist;:    One  of  the  most  delightful  of  puppet-plays 
is  ba.so(i  on  the  favorite  story. 

Smith,  Elder  and  Company,  Lt)ndon;  MaeiniUan.  New  York. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  321 

Augustus  Thomas 

Oliver  Goldsmith:  A  very  engaging  play,  introducing  Burke,  Gold- 
smith, Garrick  in  several  amusing  rdles.  Dr.  Johnson,  and  others  in  his 
circle,  and  presenting  (in  Act  II)  a  dress  rehearsal  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

French. 

Frank  G.  Tompkins 

Sham:  A  Social  Satire:  Of  a  most  superior  burglar,  who  takes  only 
genuine  objects  of  art,  disdains  the  imitation  stuff  that  litters  Charles  and 
Clara's  home,  and  reads  them  a  severe  lecture  on  reality  and  sham  in  this 
and  other  departments  of  life. 

Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Ridgley  Torrence 

Granny  Maumee:  Highly  tragic  play  of  the  blood-hatred  of  negroes 
for  those  who  have  tortured  and  killed,  and  of  voodoo  rites  and  miracles; 
power  is  given  the  play  by  a  most  human  reversal  of  feeling  at  the  last. 

In  Plays  for  a  Negro  Theatre,  Macmillan. 

The  Rider  of  Dreams:  A  masterful  mulatto  who  keeps  his  people 
obedient  to  a  benevolent  despotism. 
Ibid. 

Stuart  Walker 

The  Medicine  Show:  Some  amusing  characters,  shiftless  but  fertile 
of  invention,  and  their  device  for  getting  rich. 
In  Portmanteau  Plays,  Stewart  and  Kidd. 

Nevertheless:  A  play  which  has  interested  high-school  pupils  and 
their  friends  in  Better  Speech  programmes. 

Ibid. 

Six  who  Pass  while  the  Lentils  Boil:  A  quaint  and  pleasant  com- 
edy of  a  boy  set  to  watch  the  lentils  cooking,  of  a  queen  who  is  fugitive 
from  execution  for  a  violation  of  etiquette,  and  of  other  matters. 

Ibid. 

Percival  Wilde 

The  Traitor:  A  traitor  in  the  British  camp  is  discovered  by  a  ruse 
that  is  effective  and  perhaps  plausible. 
In  Dawn  and  Other  One-Act  Plays,  Holt. 

Oscar  M.  Wolff 
Where  but  in  America?  Amusing  small  comedy  in  which  a  Swedish 
cook  and  her  fiance  have  potent  influence  in  an  American  household. 
In  Mayorga,  Representative  One-Act  Plays,  Little,  Brown. 

22 


322  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

William  Butler  Yeats 
Deirdre:  The  last  scene  in  the  tragedy  of  Deirdre  of  the  Sorrows. 

Macmillan. 

The  Green  Helmet:  Dramatization  of  a  most  interesting  Gaelic 
variant  of  the  story  of  Sir  Gawain  and  the  Green  Knight;  it  contains  good 
character  study. 

Macmillan. 

The  King's  Threshold:  A  poet  and  singer,  deprived  of  his  rightful 
honor  at  the  Irish  King's  cou^t,  makes  effective  use  of  the  ancient  tradi- 
tional weapon  of  the  hunger  strike  in  order  to  secure  to  his  art  and  its 
worthy  practisers  their  due  recognition. 

Macmillan. 

The  Hour  Glass:  A  mystical  play  of  wisdom  and  folly  and  the  ap- 
proach of  death. 
Macmillan. 

Cathleen  Nr  IIoouhan:  A  moving  dramatization  of  the  compelling 
spirit  of  Love  of  Country. 
Macmillan. 

The  Pot  OF  Broth:  An  ancient  storj',  pleasantly  dramatized,  of  a 
wittv»  wanderer  who  plays  to  his  |dvantape  on  the  credulity,  greed,  and 
love  of  flattery  of  a  sharp-tongued  peasant  woman. 

Macmillan. 

William  Butler  Yeats  and  Lady  Gregory 

The  Unicorn  from  the  Stars:  A  mystical  play  of  a  dreamer's  rough 
contacts  with  reality. 
Stratford,  190t. 

Israel  Zangwill 
The  War  God:  Those  who  sacrifice  others  to  the  War  God  arc  them- 
selves immolated  on  his  altar. 
Macmillan. 

The  Melting  Pot:   A  serious  play  in  which  the  tragic  conaequencea  of 
race  prejudice  are  realizably  and  poignantly  set  forth. 
Macmillan. 


BIBLIOGRAPHY  323 

BOOKS  ABOUT  THE  THEATRE,  MARIONETTES 
AND  CHILDREN'S  PLAYS 

William  Archer 
Plat  Making:  Small,  Maynard  and  Co. 

Richard  Burton 
How  TO  See  a  Play:  Macmillan. 

Percival  Chubb  and  Others 
FESTTVAia  AND  Plats  IN  SCHOOLS  AND  Elsewhere:  Harper. 

Barrett  Clark 
How  TO  Produce  Amateur  Plats:  Little,  Brown. 

Payne  Collier  (attributed) 
Punch  and  Judt:  London,  1828. 
A  history  of  the  marionettes  in  England,  illustrated  by  Cruikshank. 

Clayton  Hamilton 
Studies  in  Stagecraft:  Holt. 
The  Theort  of  the  Theatre:  Holt. 

Helen  Joseph 
A  Book  of  Marionettes:  Huebsch. 
Beautifully  illustrated  history  of  the  puppet-plays. 

Gertrude  Johnson 
Choosing  a  Plat:  Century  Co. 

Ludwig  Lewisohn 
The  Modern  Drama:  Huebsch. 
The  best  criticism  of  naturalistic  and  neo-romantic  drama  to-day. 

Karl  Mantzius 
HiSTORT  of  Theatrical  Art  in  Ancient  and  Modern  Times:  Five 
volumes:  Louise  von  Sossell,  translator.    Illustrated.    Lippincott. 

Roy  Mitchell 
Shakespeare  for  Communitt  Platers:  Dutton. 
Illustrated  with  cuts  of  costume,  properties,  etc. 

Constance  D'Arcy  MacKaye 
Costumes  and  Scenert  for  Amateurs;  How  to  Produce  Children's 
Plats:  Holt. 
Illustrations  and  directions. 


V 


324  BIBLIOGRAPHY 

Percy  Mackaye 
The  Little  Theatre  in-  the  United  States:  Holt. 
\^^      The  Communitt  Dr.\ma:  Houghton  MiflBin. 
The  Civic  Theatre:  Mitchell  Kennerley. 

George  Jean  Nathan 
\/    Another  Book  ON  the  TiiKATui::  Hucbsch. 

Brander  Matthews 
The  Development  op  the  Draha:  Scribner's. 

A  Study  of  the  Drama:  Houghton  Mifflin. 
A  most  helpful  account. 

Charlotte  Porter 
The  Stage  of  Shakespeare:  Badger. 

A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  as  a  Folk-Pageant.    Drama,  vii,  Nos. 
26, 27. 
Valuable  articles  for  reconstructing  the  Elizabethan  plays. 

Maurice  Sand 
History  of  the  Harlequinadk:  Lippiricott. 

Clarence  Stratton 
PuoDUCiNa  IN  Little  The-^tres:  Holt,  19il. 

The  magazines  Drama,  Pod  Ijire,  the  Theater  Arts  Magazine,  the  LittU 
Theater  Magazine,  and  articles  in  the  English  Journal  arc  of  value. 

AS  TO  PLAYS  AxM)  DUAM.VriZATION  IN  SCHOOL 

H.  Caldwell  Cook 
The  Vu-kx  Way:  Heineinami. 

Valuable  account  of  work  at  llu-  Pciirsc  School  in  Cambridge,  England. 

Emma  Sheridan  Fry 
Educational  Dhamatu-s:  Lloyd  .\dains  Noble. 

Alice  Minnie  Herts 
The  Cuildrein's  Educational  Thkatuk:  IIar|>cr. 

Alice  Minnie  Herts  Heniger 
The  Kingdom  OF  the  ('iiii.d:  Dutton. 

Margaret  Skinner 
Si>CIalI7.ing  Dhamatics:  English  Journal,  (\\o\>eT,  1920,9:445. 
An  cjcccllcnt  account  of  reallv  educational  dramatics. 


1 


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